


Thrice for mine, and thrice for thine

by DisaLanglois



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisaLanglois/pseuds/DisaLanglois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ways Arthur finds out.  Three ways Arthur does not find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night ambush

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve tried to write slash, really, I have, but I just can’t do sex scenes. They either turn into assembly instructions ( _Insert Tab 7A into Slot 7B, apply glue, and hold until dry_ ), or slide helplessly into parody. So, to hell with it - this is bro-mance. With swords.

Two young men on an old mule fled through the dark forests of Camelot. Behind them, torches were flickering between the tree stumps as the chase filled the dark forest.

“We should really be going faster, Arthur.” Merlin called to Arthur over his shoulder. “Are you wearing your spurs?” He could feel Arthur’s one arm tight about his waist to keep him from sliding backwards over Gaius’s mule’s high rump. “Have you tried spurring him?”

Under them, the mule’s panic had begun to wear off, replaced by pain and fatigue. His staccato strides suddenly lost rhythm altogether, and he dropped into a shambling trot, stumbling now and again in the dark so that his head dipped abruptly, nearly pitching them off. His sides were heaving against Merlin’s calves, his breathing so loud Merlin was certain their pursuers could follow them by following the sound of wheezing.

He heard Arthur’s annoyed breath. “Of course I’m wearing spurs – I’m a _knight,_ Merlin! No point using them. The poor thing is already going as fast as he can.”

The mule plodded on, but the trot became a walk and then finally a hobble. Merlin could sense but not see the wounds in the animal’s breast and flank and hip. Only the mule’s rock-headed stubbornness had kept them going so far, and it had not been enough.

“Stop here,” Arthur ordered. “Dolphin has had enough,” and Merlin drew on the reins.

Dolphin stopped, and let his great head drop. Merlin felt Arthur slide backwards over the mule’s rump, and dismounted himself. He moved to the mule’s head, holding him by his bit rings, feeling his hot breath against his face. “We’ll have to go on foot,” he said to Arthur, trying to sense the animal’s injuries. His breast and flank had been pierced, but the pain in his hip had disappeared on its own – perhaps carrying double had caused that one?

“Won’t take them long to find us,” Arthur said hoarsely, and Merlin heard the sound of his sword being sheathed. “There’s a house, just along here. Belonged to a woodcutter – now, what was his name? Cooper? Carter? – he died a few years ago…”

“Will we be able to hold them off there?” Merlin asked, interrupting.

He couldn’t see Arthur’s face in the dark, but there was a short silence before the prince replied. “No, but it’ll make killing us more difficult, and I rather feel like being difficult tonight. Thank you, Dolphin.”

Merlin could only barely see the mule’s long grey face in the dark, but he echoed Arthur’s gratitude by pressing his face briefly against the bony brow. _Brave Dolphin. Noble Dolphin. No warhorse could have done better. You saved both our lives tonight._ He felt the mule receive his message with equine acceptance.

They left the mule standing, and ran crashing and stumbling through the trees.

It was dark, dark as pitch, as if they ran through a cave. Merlin’s world seemed to contract, until it contained nothing but tired lungs and painful legs and tripping over invisible bushes and treacherous roots. He wondered for a moment if they were lost, if Arthur’s boast that he knew every square foot of his homeland was false, and then suddenly they ran into knee-length scrub washed by starlight. They had broken into a clearing, and opposite stood the black rectangle of a building.

“Come on!” Arthur called, and Merlin followed him across the clearing to the building.

It was only a one-room shack with sagging thatch, cold and long-uninhabited by the smell, but it had stone walls and still possessed a door. They fell in, and Merlin heaved the door closed against the dark outside.

Merlin felt by the doorway, scrabbling his hands over the cold brick, seeking a lantern, a torch, anything that could give light, but there was nothing. Behind him, Arthur explored the small space they found themselves in.

“Are you wounded?” Merlin panted.

“Just a scratch,” Arthur rasped. His breathing was loud. “Did you recognise their commander?”

“Which one was their commander?”

“The one with the red cloth around his waist, and the biggest axe. I think that was Tully, the ex-butcher.” A light flared, from Arthur’s flint and steel, and Arthur managed to cup his hands around the flame and put a taper into it. The tiny glow was enough to display his face and to sketch the little room in which they stood, but not much else. He pushed the end of the taper into a gap in the rough stone wall.

“I didn’t recognise him, sorry.”

In fact, Merlin hadn’t recognised anyone. The whole brief fight seemed to have happened in jumble of disjointed flashes, that were impossible to put together into a coherent memory.

He remembered that he’d fallen behind the knights as they rode under the light of flickering torches. He remembered Arthur ahead of him calling over his shoulder, _“Keep up, Merlin!”_ and himself calling back _“I can’t make him go any faster!”_ and then Sir Kay had made a sour joke about mules that refused to work outside merchants’ hours. Then the first roaring charge had come out of the night. He’d seen Sir John driven from his saddle by a cloth-yard arrow in his chest, and Sir Gilbert’s horse rearing and pitching him off backwards, with his torch spinning into darkness like a falling star. He’d seen Arthur’s horse fall. He remembered shouting at Dolphin with words and magic and driving the grey mule forward, and then somehow Arthur was behind him on the mule and they were fleeing away from the road and through the trees.

Arthur, no doubt, could remember every moment, and the speed and aim of every blow that had struck down his guards, but Arthur had been raised from birth to fight. "That was definitely Tully,” Arthur said. He shook his head. “Tully, Tully, Tully, I didn’t know you had it in you.” His voice sounded rueful, not angry.

Merlin rubbed his eyes, with the hand that wasn’t still holding his staff, and realized that he was shaking. He was glad Arthur couldn’t see it. It had all happened so fast! “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m so sorry, this is my fault, if I hadn’t taken the mule, if I’d remembered the farrier, we’d have been at the inn already…”

“Shut up, Merlin! They’ll be here in a few minutes. We don’t have much time,” Arthur revolved on the spot to scan the room. “If their commander is good, that is, and I think he is. That was a beautiful ambush, simply beautiful. Where does a butcher learn tactics like that?”

The lone taper cast his shadow as big as a giant. His fingers were flexing rapidly around the hilt of his sword. He turned around again, scanning the room, his long surcoat swirling about his legs.

Merlin groaned.

Not all of the reflected pain Merlin had felt had been the mule’s. Arthur’s surcoat was black with blood from hip to hem, and he was putting as little weight on his right leg as he could. Flight was impossible. Defence was impossible.

Arthur looked up at the rafters, his lips pursed and his blue eyes cast into shadow. “Now, if I was Tully, I’d send three men in through the door, two through that window, and have another three come in through the roof. That’s what I would do.” Arthur was thinking aloud, ticking through his tactical calculations with professional calm. “There is but one of me, and I’d imagine about twenty five survive of them. The guards at the inn might hear, if the wind is right, and come to investigate, but Tully will have recognised me, too, so he needs to shut my mouth up before they get here. I think I can take down at least ten of them – perhaps enough for the rest to decide Tully’s luck has turned.”

“We must barricade the door!” Merlin said. He moved to pick up the last remaining piece of furniture in the shack – a table – and drag it in front of the door.

“There’s little point barring the door if the roof is full of holes, Merlin!” Arthur pointed a finger at the roof.

Merlin followed his finger and saw starlight. “There must be a way to defeat them, Arthur!”

“There isn’t. The best we can do is teach Tully and his crowd to tread warily in Camelot in future. There are too many of them, even for me.”

“But not for me,” Merlin said. He looked at Arthur, the golden prince of Camelot, pacing in his death-trap. Somehow, in all the panic, he’d held onto the Sidhe staff. He cradled it in his arms, thinking.

Arthur stopped pacing, and looked at Merlin, and a slight smile curved his lips. “That’s right, Merlin. Not for you. I can’t let myself be captured alive to be used against my father. But you – you’re just a servant.” He nodded sharply. “Get yourself into the rafters, and stay there until it’s over.”

Merlin braced himself. “No. That’s not what I meant.” There was no other way, he realized. Flight was impossible. Victory was implausible. Letting Arthur die was – _unthinkable._ He could not, whatever the cost.

There was a noise outside, and a roar of, “Here they are!” They both stood still for a moment while orders were called outside. Torchlight flared around the frame of the door.

Arthur stepped closer to Merlin, so that they were face to face, and gripped Merlin’s shoulder. “We haven’t much time left, Merlin, so listen.” Merlin felt the steadiness of the hand on his shoulder, Arthur’s firm fingers betraying not even the slightest tremor. His eyes were calm, and astonishingly accepting of what was coming. He even found time for a small smile. “Knowing you, and having you as a friend – it has been a genuine pleasure.”

Merlin put his own hand onto Arthur’s shoulder, so that they faced each other as equals. _This may be the last time he willingly meets my eyes,_ he thought. “Arthur, whatever happens now, please don’t think the worst of me?”

Arthur gave his shoulder another squeeze, and then pushed him away affectionately with a light punch. “Of course not, Merlin. Not everyone is born to be a knight! Now stand ready. You take the window, it’s narrow so they’ll foul each other – I’ll deal with the luckless souls who come through the roof and the door.”

There were noises at the door, and footsteps ran around the side of the shack. Grunts and scuffles came from the other side, as someone – several someones – heaved themselves over the eaves and into the sagging thatch.

Arthur drew his sword and stood _en garde,_ and gave his sword his usual theatrical twirl over his shoulder – an action that visually impressive and militarily useless, Merlin knew, but perhaps it had become a nervous tic. Merlin passed Arthur and stood at the door. He put his hand out to the door and summoned his strength.

 _I call on you,_ he spoke to his magic.

“Merlin, you fool,” he heard Arthur hiss behind him. “Draw your sword!”

The door burst open, and their attackers threw themselves inside, yelling and waving weapons. His magic responded, raw magic unfiltered by a spell. It roared out of him, channelled by the staff into a burst of pure malevolence.

The first two men through the door were dead before they reached him.

So were the next two, even quicker. It felt so good to let himself go. Unbelievably good. _Glorious!_

There was a crash behind them both as two more bashed in the rotten shutters, and Merlin spun around to face them. A wash of power exploded across the shack, boiling blue fire.

 _I call on you!_

He caught sight of Arthur’s face then, blanched pale in the blue light of Merlin’s magic. Arthur had fallen back, his sword point down and wavering in paralytic shock. He took another step back, raising his free hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the staff. His face was filled with shock and doubt.

For a moment, a single heartbeat of terrible anguish, Merlin’s power faltered at the look on Arthur’s face.

A crash overhead, and the roof fell in. Merlin whirled with the staff raised, but Arthur’s moment of shock had passed. His sword moved with its usual speed, striking upward like a snake at the first attacker, and then across the body of a second, and then beat down a third man’s guard and licked into his throat. Three men lay dead at Arthur’s feet, and Arthur returned to his stare at Merlin.

Merlin turned to meet his eyes, his magic still roaring like a storm inside him.

To Merlin’s horror, Arthur took a step to his rear, and brought his sword point up.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s not what it looks like?” Arthur hissed.

“I’m afraid it’s exactly what it looks like, sorry,” Merlin replied. “Can we talk about this later?”

Arthur nodded and went _en garde_ again.

Outside, shouts went up, and there was another charge, this time a little less coordinated, a little more cautious. The attackers had seen the first charge go in and seen nothing but silence and bright light come out, but their caution didn’t help them. The men through the roof died as quickly as the first, as did the ones through the door, but the ones who tried to come in by the window saw what was happening to their comrades-in-arms at the door and thought better of it.

“A sorcerer!” the shout went up, from one of their attackers who was fleeing back to the trees. “It’s a sorcerer! Don’t go in there!”

The man had a piercing voice, and in a moment the battle was over. Merlin heard shouts and screams, and the sound of horses galloping. And that was the end of that.

Arthur sagged down onto his heels, with his sword held in front of him like a talisman and his forehead pressed against the cross-guard, muttering to himself. Merlin still faced the door with his hand ready, but as the silence went on and on, he relaxed and turned to Arthur. “Shall we go out?”

Arthur opened his eyes and looked up at him with narrowed eyes as if he didn’t understand the question. “Out?”

“We can go see if any of the other knights survived.”

“They may be planning another attack,” Arthur said. “Withdraw – regroup – re-attack after our guard is down.”

“I can deal with them,” Merlin said.

Arthur looked at him. His face was quite unreadable for a moment, with the taper casting light only on the side of his face. He sighed. “I suppose you can, at that.” He heaved himself to his feet, with a wince of pain, and moved to pluck the little taper out of the crack in the wall.

“You don’t need that,” Merlin said. He cupped his hand and called up a globe of light. “I can do that too.”

Arthur looked at the light, and rubbed his forehead with his fist. “I’ve seen that before,” he said dryly. He sheathed his sword. “Lead on, Merlin.”

Outside, the clearing was empty, save for a single corpse that had been forcibly propelled backwards from the door by Merlin’s magic like a cork from a bottle. Merlin raised the output of the light in his hand, and freed it to bob around the perimeter of the clearing.

For a moment there was silence. Arthur sighed, heavily, and sat down in the tall grass, his sword across his knees. “You use magic,” he whispered.

“Yes. Always have, ever since I was very little.” Merlin let the light fade away to a pale blob – there was no sense advertising the presence of a magician here. They were left standing in the starlight.

Merlin could think of a thousand things they needed to do – stop Arthur’s bleeding, find survivors, find Dolphin, get to the inn, hide all these corpses somehow before anyone noticed them – but he had been waiting for years for Arthur to know, and now that he knew, he wanted to finish it.

“Hiding in plain sight, right under my father’s nose.” Arthur blinked his eyes and shook his head as if unable to believe his own words. “You, of all people. My own servant, using magic!”

“Sorry,” Merlin said, automatically, and then changed his mind. He straightened his spine, standing tall. “No. I’m not sorry. I won’t apologise. Here I am, Arthur. Now you see me.”

Even in the starlight Merlin could see Arthur’s brows arch. “And all these magical happenings that have been happening at court? How much of that was you? Gryphons, and trolls, and singing enchantresses, and gargoyles coming to life and attacking the castle? Was that you?”

“Oh, no, no, no! I didn’t cause any of that!” Merlin said. Was Arthur now going to blame him for the last few years of magical catastrophes? “Don’t try to pin all that on me, Arthur. I’ve been trying to _protect_ you. Which is not an easy job sometimes, let me tell you.”

“I believe you,” Arthur said. He pointed at the light. “I really have seen that before. And it wasn’t your friend Will who was the magician at your village, was it?”

Merlin shook his head, and stepped closer to him. “Arthur, you have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to tell you!”

Arthur rubbed the side of his nose with a bloody finger. “All this time, I thought … I knew there was a sorcerer around Camelot, but I thought it was only Gaius.”

“Gaius?” Merlin asked, surprised.

Arthur nodded. “I saw him cast a spell on one of his remedies when I was – oh – I think about fourteen or so. I knew my father would kill him, so I kept my mouth shut. But _Gaius_ casts a spell like he was trying to lay an egg – _you_ just go …” Arthur put out his hand in imitation of Merlin’s gesture and said, “ _Boo!_ How did you do that?”

“I’m a bit stronger than Gaius,” Merlin admitted. “Actually, quite a lot stronger than Gaius.” He rubbed the side of his nose with his finger, and confessed. “Actually, I’m stronger than anyone else I’ve ever met. I’m not boasting, I’ve just never been beaten.”

“Well, well, Merlin. You’re not as useless as I thought you were,” Arthur said. Merlin could see his teeth in the starlight – his usual cheer was coming back.

Merlin made a flourish with both hands and lowered himself in a mock bow. “May I present myself, sire? Merlin the Magician, at your service.”

Arthur climbed to his feet again. “And what an exciting evening this has turned out to be!” Arthur said, raising his palms up towards the sky like a performer on a stage. “Butchers turn out to be bandits! Mules turn out to be destriers! Servants turn out to be sorcerers!”

Merlin cleared his throat. “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a magician. ‘Sorcerer’ sounds too much like a mad old man who sits in a cave and thinks about ravens all day.”

Arthur looked around them, and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so, a voice cried through the trees. “Hello, the house!”

Across the clearing, a horse and rider emerged from the trees. Arthur heaved himself to his feet and put his hands on his sword hilt, ready to fight, and shouted. “Who comes this way?”

“Arthur, is that you? It’s me, Kay,” came the answering call. The horse lumbered in their direction, and Merlin recognized the white blaze of Sir Gilbert’s horse. Sir Kay drew rein before them, and dropped off.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Arthur said, and the two knights embraced, as warmly as is possible for two aggressive young men in plate and chain mail to embrace.

Sir Kay’s mother had nursed Arthur when he was a baby, and Arthur regarded him as a foster-brother. Everyone else in Camelot regarded him as sour, dour, and sarcastic. He rarely fought, preferring to scour people’s spirits with his tongue instead, but when he did fight it was with a grim and silent ferocity. His armour was spattered with blood, Merlin saw.

“Sir Gilbert and Sir John?” Arthur asked, and Sir Kay shook his head. Arthur groaned and turned away, his hands over his face, and Merlin and Sir Kay let him.

Sir Kay glanced at Merlin and said, “I see _you’ve_ managed to wriggle off the hook again, too.”

“I have, Sir Kay. Beginner’s luck, I think.” That was as much warmth as could be expected from Sir Kay. “But Arthur is wounded.”

Sir Kay frowned. “Badly?”

“He says not.”

“Were you two not pursued?” Sir Kay asked. Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak Arthur interrupted.

“We had assistance, from a most unlikely quarter,” Arthur said, turning back to them. “Do you remember Old Man Carter, who used to live here?”

“Yes?”

“It seems he didn’t live quite as solitary a life as everyone thought he did. Go and have a look in the shack.”

Sir Kay did, leading the horse behind him. Arthur wiggled his brows up and down once at Merlin and mouthed _Follow my lead,_ and then limped after Kay.

Kay stood in the doorway and whistled. The taper still burned, just enough to light over the dead. “My, my. Clearly, you’ve had a _lovely_ evening’s entertainment. What happened?”

“Forest fairies,” Arthur said. “They seemed to be protecting this house – we got in without seeing a thing, but as soon as the bandits attacked the fairies came swarming all over them like bees.”

Merlin nodded vigorously. “There were hundreds of them! Thousands! Tens of thousands!”

“Don’t exaggerate, Merlin,” Arthur said sternly. “I’ve warned you before about that. I’d say there were about five hundred of them.”

“No wonder old Carter chose to live all alone out here in the woods,” Sir Kay said, grinning mirthlessly. “Carter a magician? Your father will be furious.”

Arthur looked at the stars. And then he looked at Merlin. “Yes. He would probably want to burn this house down. But I think for now it would be best to keep Carter’s forest fairies between ourselves. He has a lot to worry about as it is, and this is just an unnecessary distraction.

“Yes,” Merlin agreed, nodding vigorously. “Things are complicated enough as they are.”

“As you wish, Arthur,” Sir Kay agreed. “What your father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Arthur was still eyeing Merlin, and he nodded very slightly. “Now that we know Tully leads these bandits, our priority is to hunt him down and stop him. We can discuss the implications of the existence of forest fairies … later.”

"I look forward to it," Merlin said, giddy with relief.


	2. Yuletide cheer

It was Yule in Camelot

Of course, _technically,_ it was Yule everywhere. The Winter Solstice happened everywhere at the same time – but at the same time, this was Yule as it was celebrated in _Camelot._

In Ealdor, people had celebrated Yule as one last party before the worst of winter really tightened its grip on the little village. It was one last gesture of defiance from the gritty peasants to the hardships of their lives. It was a final finger held up at the old gods and the dark nights and the prowling wolves. The village of Ealdor would struggle to survive, but the days _would_ lengthen again, they _would_ survive, they _would_ be resurrected, and they would celebrate the promise of that resurrection at Yule.

But in Camelot, snug behind its high walls, nobody ever actually starved.

Even after all this time, the splendor of the city still sometimes took Merlin’s breath away. It seemed to him as if Camelot exploded in a paroxism of festivity, as if the cold and dark outside were not so much a threat to be defied as an irrelevance. If Merlin, as a boy back in Ealdor, had tried to imagine how a great city celebrated Yule, he might have taken all the Yule traditions he’d ever seen, as well as all the traditions he’d ever heard of, and rolled them into one, but even so, he still wouldn’t have come close to imagining how Camelot celebrated Yule.

If the old gods still looked upon Albion, he thought to himself, they would barely spare a glance for the sounds of loud singing emanating from Ealdor, by contrast to the scale of the sheer defiance displayed by Camelot tonight.

Even the castle threw itself open, and was thronged with crowds. The King had ordered great fires lit in the courtyards and allowed his subjects to enter the castle freely. The taverns had opened their doors and set trestles out in the streets, so that it seemed the whole Lower Town was one giant party.

Not that everyone joined in the celebrations. Oh, no. No such luck.

Every room of the palace was filled with noble guests who all had to be waited on hand and foot by servants. Those of the guards who had drawn the short straw had to stay alert, as this night would be the perfect opportunity for an assassin to slip into Camelot and put a blade into a royal back.

And of course, a certain lowly physician’s assistant, who rushed around at Gaius’s heels all day, dealing with an endless stream of alcohol-caused injuries and, between-times, preparing enough hangover-remedy to float a warship. It was going to be a long night.

 

…

 

Merlin pushed open the door to Arthur’s rooms, and put his head around the door, careful not to tip his plate over or spill his ale. He glanced quickly to left and right.

It was empty. No Arthur.

Merlin was sure Arthur wouldn’t mind his servant using his rooms for a little while, to rest his tired legs and have some food. Almost sure, at least. He pushed the door open with one shoulder, slipped in, and then hooked his heel back to push it closed behind him. He put the plate down on Arthur’s polished table, and his pint of ale next to it, and then plumped himself down in Arthur’s ornate chair with a heartfelt sigh of appreciation. Ah, this was going to be a good Yule after all!

The fireplace was still laid exactly as Merlin had left it this morning. A quick spell brought the fire to life. He didn’t bother with candles. He paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together and surveying the magnificent food piled before him, and then began shovelling roast meat and potatoes and crackling into his mouth as fast as he could.

He was ravenously hungry. He’d been following Gaius around the palace all night, smelling all this lovely food but unable to stop long enough to actually eat any of it. It was ten o’clock already, and he’d only now managed to escape from Gaius, and then only because the old physician had fallen asleep over his cauldron.

Merlin had barely seen Arthur all day. Arthur was a prince. Prince Arthur had spent his day eating, and drinking, and dancing, and a having a sleigh-ride, and getting into a snowball-fight with his own guards (he’d lost, but only because Merlin had been helping the guards) and now probably more drinking. Merlin had barely seen him all day, but he was sure he wouldn’t see him now.

Naturally, Arthur being Arthur, this was the moment the dollop-head walked in.

The Prince banged the door open, letting in the muffled drone of voices from outside. He had his head down, pre-occupied, and took several steps inside before he spotted Merlin, and then he stopped dead, one eyebrow raised.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur said, smugly, rolling the name out as if it was an a brandied cherry and he was enjoying tasting it. He put his hands on his hips.

Merlin tried to swallow his mouthful, found that roast potato gets stuck in one’s throat if one swallows it without chewing, and choked on it. When he was able to look back at Arthur, he found Arthur standing over him, examining him with his lip curled.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” Arthur said drily.

“Sorry, Sire,” Merlin gasped. It seemed like a good idea to stand up, and he did, but he banged his thigh painfully on the edge of the table, and doubled over again with a gasp.

“So, how are you finding my chambers, Merlin? Everything to your satisfaction thus far? Anything else you require while I’m here?”

“No, Sire. I mean – I came up here to eat because I’ve been busy working with Gaius all night. I can go if you …”

Arthur stepped closer, frowning. Merlin held himself still, as his prince stepped up until they stood chest to chest, and sniffed closely at his breath. “Good heavens, Merlin. Are you trying to tell me that you’re sober? On this night of all nights, you’re stone cold sober?”

“I’m always sober!” Merlin said. Merlin could see the beginning of a smile beginning to escape around Arthur’s stern expression. He could smell mead on Arthur’s breath, but the eyes regarding his own were more clear than he expected. “You’re not as drunk as you’re supposed to be, either,” he objected.

Arthur stepped backwards, away from Merlin, and went over the the fireplace. “No, that’s true. I never let myself get too far gone. It wouldn’t do for my future subjects to see the Crown Prince blind drunk and puking into the flowerpots. I might not remember the next day, but they might never forget.”

Merlin thought about it. “I hadn’t thought about it like that before.”

Arthur leaned his hands onto his mantlepiece and gazed down into the fire. “Clear that away, Merlin. I have guests arriving in a matter of minutes.”

“Yes, Sire.” Merlin picked up his plate, and gazed wildly around the room in search of a place to hide it. His eye settled on Arthur’s bed, and he went over to it, bent, and slid plate and ale mug under it.

“You have an interesting concept of what constitutes a chamber pot, Merlin.”

Merlin glanced up at him, from his knees next to the bed. Arthur had settled into the chair Merlin had just left. He was leaning back comfortably with one elbow on the arm of the chair, completely at his ease. His ringed index finger traced his chin thoughtfully as he regarded Merlin.

Merlin climbed back to his feet and dusted off his knees. “As long as none of your guests are drunk enough to think that it is a chamber pot, we should be all right.”

Arthur opened his palm, waving it away with a _what happens, happens_ gesture. “Go down to the kitchen and bring back mead. At least a gallon of it. And some red wine.”

“Right away, Sire,” he sighed. And when that was all drunk up, Merlin would be the one pouring Arthur into his bed to sleep it off, he thought to himself.

When he laboured back into Arthur’s chambers half an hour later – there weren’t too many barrels of mead left that hadn’t already been broached – the chairs around Arthur’s table had been filled with knights. All were more than a little bit drunk.

These, Merlin knew, were the inner circle of Arthur’s future court – the survivors of the knights who had ridden with him to face the dragon, the tiny handful Arthur trusted both to guard his life and tell him the truth. Sir Kay sat at the foot of the table, Sir Leon sat at Arthur’s right, and a brace of other pompous, patronising, supercilious, clod-poles sat around them.

Merlin could have groaned – would have groaned, if there had been only Arthur to hear. Now there were five of them, and he, Merlin, was going to have to serve all five. Pour from the right, clear away from the left, keep them refilled at all times, such joy. This was going to be the worst Yule of all time.

“Merlin!” Arthur greeted him. “Just the man we’ve been waiting for! Come here, Merlin.”

All the knights had turned to look at him, as he came in through the door, and he faltered slightly in the face of that concentrated stare. “Sire?” he said, doubtfully.

Arthur jumped up. He was trying not to grin, but the grin kept escaping. The chair at Arthur’s left hand was empty, and Arthur clamped his hand on the chair’s back and drew it out. “Sit yourself down, Merlin. Come here, don’t be shy.”

Merlin put the barrel of mead down on the table. “Er,” he started, but Arthur transferred his hand to his shoulder and pressed him down firmly into the chair.

 _“Sit,”_ the prince commanded, and when Merlin had finally lowered himself all the way, he was rewarded with a pat on the shoulder. “Good boy. Now, _stay._ ”

Sir Kay drew a pewter goblet toward himself, and poured a measure of wine into it. “This is Yule, boy. Yule is a time of year for turning things upside down, for conversions, and inversions, and perversions. Death, and rebirth, and cattle talking in the stables, and servants drinking with princes. So have a drink, Merlin.” He pushed the goblet slowly over the table like a chesspiece, until it stood in front of Merlin.

Merlin was very aware that Arthur had folded both arms over the back of Merlin’s chair and was leaning over him like a schoolmaster.

“I’ll hike to propose a toasht,” announced Sir Edouard. He lifted his goblet. “To the health of talking cattle.”

The others all raised their goblets. “The health of talking cattle!”

Merlin lifted his goblet, held it up to his lips, and stared uncertainly at the knights. Then a long arm reached over his shoulder, took hold of the bottom of the goblet and unceremoniously tipped it, so that Merlin could either drink the spilling wine or wear it. He drank.

“There you go. Your first toast,” Arthur murmured at his ear, and then raised his voice. “Gentlemen! I’d like to propose a toast!” He moved back to his place, picked up his goblet, and lofted it. “To Merlin’s first toast!”

 

...

 

Merlin, Arthur was oddly pleased to find out, was a cheerful drunk – chatty, chirpy, cheeky, and at the moment entirely unaware of the fact that certain people were laughing _at_ him, and not _with_ him.

He was, in short, almost exactly the same drunk as he was sober, only more so.

And he’d reached that point faster than Arthur would have believed possible.

His servant had hardly stopped grinning for a moment since the mead had started to take hold. The flashing grin that was usually such a rare treat had been blazing away like a sun, a grin so wide that the dark eyes under those level brows all but disappeared inside its creases.

“So, tell us, Merlin,” Sir Leon said, turning his goblet’s stem between thumb and forefinger, during a lull while they all tried to think of something they hadn’t toasted yet. “Is it true Arthur here never has a hangover?”

Merlin shook his head – shook his whole head, wagging it from side to side like a weaving horse. His face was astonishingly pink, particularly his ears. “No. Never, ever, ever.”

“And you?”

“Me? I’ve never had a hangover either. Never, ever, ever.”

“Have you ever been drunk?” Sir Kay probed.

“No. Never, ever, ever. My mother would be angry with me!” He laughed at the idea.

“You’re drunk now,” Arthur pointed out to him.

Merlin laughed again, an open mouthed cackle of delight at what he was about to say. He pointed his finger at Arthur across the table, and crowed, “Ah, ha, ha, but you’re sober, and in the morning I shall be ugly!” He laughed again, poked the finger into Arthur’s shoulder for emphasis, and demanded happily, “How do you like that, eh?”

The knights laughed. Arthur put his hand over his mouth in mock horror. “How can you say such a thing to me?”

Merlin slapped his palm on the tabletop. His eyes sparkling, he looked around him at the knights. “Haven’t you heard that one before? It’s an old, old, old joke where I come from.”

“I’ll hike to proposhe a toasht!” Sir Edouard said. “To old jokes!”

Merlin raised his goblet along with the others, but Arthur stayed his hand with his own, shaking his head. “I think you’ve had enough toasting for one night, Merlin.”

“But I like toasting!” Merlin protested.

“You’ve had enough. No more mead.”

For a moment the cheery grin faded. Merlin looked thoughtfully around at the men filling their goblets, then brightened up as a brilliant thought occurred to him. The grin returned as strongly as before. “We can toast marshmallows!”

Sir Kay coughed into his fist. “M- m- marshmallows?”

“Arthur keeps marshmallows in his chest of drawers. He likes to eat them when he’s reading. I have to keep them topped up,” Merlin said happily. “We can toast marshmallows. I used to marsh toastmallows with my friend Will. Can we marsh your toastmallows?” he asked Arthur. His eyes were shining with the enthusiasm of a puppy.

“I think if I start adding marshmallows to my stomach I’ll die,” Sir Leon said. “But I’ll definitely drink to your friend Will. Gentlemen – let us raise our glasses to the health of Merlin’s friend Will!”

“You can’t toast to his health,” Arthur said coldly, “because he’s dead. But,” he said, seeing another unhappy expression cross Merlin’s face, “I’ll drink to his memory.” He got to his feet, and lifted his goblet. “Gentlemen, to the memory of Merlin’s friend Will. He fought bravely and died heroically.”

The knights got to their feet as well, even Sir Edouard, who took a moment to notice everyone else standing up. “To Will!” they said, and tipped up their goblets.

Merlin had stood up as well, but he didn’t drink to Will’s memory because he was searching the table top for his goblet – a fruitless search because Arthur was holding it behind his back.

Arthur met Kay’s eyes across the table. Sir Kay, as ever, had drunk as much as everyone else but still looked about as merry as an anvil. Arthur tipped his head fractionally towards the door. Sir Kay obligingly yawned, and stretched. “Sir Leon,” he said, “I think I’ll second your opinion on the marshmallows. If I have anything more to eat tonight I’ll burst, so I’ll bid you good night, Sire.” He bowed towards Arthur.

Arthur stayed on his feet. “And a good night to you, Sir Kay.”

The other knights took the hint, and all made their farewells. “You’re leaving?” Merlin said, sounding desolated.

“Ah, but we shall see each other soon, _mon ami!_ ” said Sir Edouard, and the Norman knight enfolded Merlin in his arms and gave him a Gallic kiss on both cheeks, to Merlin’s surprise. “ _Adieu!_ And _adieu,_ Arthur.” He wasn’t quite drunk enough to try hugging the Crown Prince, but he was drunk enough that Sir Leon picked up his arm and draped it over his shoulder on their way to the door.

Once the door banged shut, Merlin got up and wobbled unsteadily over to Arthur’s chest of drawers. He fetched up against the front of it with enough force to rattle something inside, pulled open the top drawer, reached his arm inside and brought out Arthur’s bon-bon box. “Ah ha!” he cried, holding the box up as if uncovering a treasure. “Marshmallows!”

Arthur watched him curiously from the table as Merlin carried the box over to the fireplace, holding it carefully in both hands as if worried he might drop it. On the hearthrug, he crossed his ankles and dropped vertically into a crosslegged position, his long skinny legs folding under him like a horse’s. He arrived on the hearthrug with a bit of a bump, and Arthur laughed at him.

“Aren’t you going to come and have marshmallows with me?” Merlin asked, looking up at Arthur questioningly.

The cheery grin was back on his face, and it was as infectious as ever. Arthur found himself getting up from his chair and moving over the fireplace. By the time he’d sat himself down in front of the fire, Merlin had wedged the first marshmallow on the end of the long fork he used to toast Arthur’s bread, and was stretching it out to the flames.

Arthur took a marshmallow out of the box, picked up the other fork, and skewered the marshmallow on the sooty tines. He extended the fork toward the flame alongside Merlin’s.

The fire was burning down, but still hot enough that Arthur’s hand began to feel uncomfortable. Holding the fork motionless, just close enough to the flickering flame to toast but not so close that it caught fire, reminded him of fencing practice. He was having an easier time of it than Merlin, anyway – _his_ fork wobbled around over the logs in merry figure of eights.

For a moment, the two young men sat in companionable silence, until, “This has been the best Yule ever!” Merlin said happily. Arthur glanced at him. Merlin had shifted closer to the fire, and now had one knee pulled up under his chin. The warm glow of the fire gave his long face a ruddy, almost cherubic sweetness. The grin had faded to a dreamy smile.

“I’m glad you like it, Merlin.”

“I mean that, Arthur. I really, really mean that. This has been the best Yule I’ve ever had. I’ve never had such a nice Yule.”

“That’s good to hear, Merlin.” Arthur hoped Merlin wasn’t going to try hugging him, or pass out on his shoulder, or even worse, get up and go looking for more mead.

Merlin pulled his fork out of the fire, and looked at it carefully. Then he put the end of the fork into his mouth and bit the marshmallow off with his teeth. “Mm-hm! Perfect! These are the best marshmallows in the whole world!” He said it without any trace of irony, licking his lips. “I haven’t had toasted marshmallows since I left Ealdor. I used to eat them with Will. His mother used to make them and we’d take them with us when we went for wood.” Merlin’s eyes went from Arthur’s face, to Arthur’s fork. “Arthur, your marshmallow!”

Arthur looked back at the fire in time to see a flaming ball fall off the end of his fork into the fire. “Oh, damn and blast.”

Merlin broke down laughing at him. He laughed so hard he fell over backwards, and rolled on the floor. Arthur mock-glared at him. “What do you think you’re laughing at, Merlin? My marshmallow is ruined! Ruined, I tell you!”

“Don’t worry. Don’t worry,” Merlin announced, when he’d finished laughing. “I’ll do one for you the other way,” He rolled himself the right way up, and crawled on hands and knees back to the hearth. “The way I used to do them for Will. They’re nicer that way, anyway.”

He sat cross-legged again, and grabbed Arthur’s arm by the sleeve to draw the fork toward himself. Arthur permitted this, and watched as Merlin wedged another marshmallow on the end of his fork. And then, instead of releasing Arthur’s arm, Merlin shifted his grip to Arthur’s wrist. He cupped his other hand under Arthur’s marshmallow, as if sheltering a candle from a draught, bent low over it, and stared at it.

His eyes went golden.

Arthur squawked and almost fell over backwards. “Merlin!” he said.

“There you are, all toasty,” Merlin carolled happily.

 _“What_ … did you … just … _do?”_ he croaked.

Merlin looked up at him, grinning, still holding on to Arthur’s wrist. “I warmed it with magic instead.”

“You – what?” Arthur was aware that he was gobbling like a turkey, but he couldn’t help it.

“It’s better with magic,” Merlin burbled, “because you can warm the whole thing from the inside instead of just the outside. Try it, it’s nicer.” He released Arthur’s wrist. Arthur held the fork up to have a look at the marshmallow. It had gone an even brown colour all over, but as far as he could see, it was still a marshmallow.

“Try it!” Merlin said. Arthur watched him as he picked up another marshmallow between finger and thumb, and repeated the same trick with that one. The marshmallow went brown. Merlin popped it into his mouth. “Go on, Dollop-head, eat it before I do.”

Arthur couldn’t quite bring himself to eat the thing, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to stand up and roar, _“Guards!”_ instead. He stared at Merlin. “How … long … have you been doing this, Merlin?”

Merlin grinned at him, and rocked himself happily back and forth. “I worked it out when I was ten. It’s easy. I don’t even need a spell. I’ve looked in Gaius’s books for it, but it isn’t in there. You know what I think? I think,” Merlin raised one finger as if delivering words of great wisdom, “I think, in the old days, people had more important things to do with magic than just toasting marshmallows. That’s what I think.”

“You toast marshmallows with magic?”

“I can do lots of things with magic. I clean with magic. I polish your armour with magic, otherwise it would just take _too-oo lo-o-ong._ You’re not eating it, Arthur. Don’t you want it?”

Arthur looked at the marshmallow again. It still sat on the end of the fork, an innocuous little ball of brown.

Before he could let himself think twice, he put it into his mouth and bit it off the end of the fork with his teeth.

Merlin was right. Toasted in the fire, the outside of a marshmallow was crunchy, with a melted layer inside, but the core never really liquified properly. Toasted with magic, the entire inside of the marshmallow was liquid, held together only by the thin brown crust.

“Mm. You’re right. This is good.”

“See? I knew you’d like it!” With cheery disregard for politeness, Merlin grabbed Arthur’s wrist again, to wedge another marshmallow on the end, and then he repeated the trick. His eyes flashed briefly.

“Merlin, your eyes!”

“It’s all right, they do that when I pull on my magic. It doesn’t hurt. Watch.” Merlin shifted himself so that he was sitting on his knees on the hearthrug, facing Arthur, so close they were almost touching, close enough that their breaths were mingling. The firelight flickered warmly over the planes of his eager face. “Watch,” he said again.

Arthur held his breath, as Merlin brought his hand up between them, with another marshmallow between finger and thumb. He bowed his head, focussing his dark eyes on the marshmallow. For a moment his gaze went as hard and sharp as a hawk’s, then an iridescent shimmer flared in his irises. The marshmallow went brown.

By all rights, Arthur should have been scrambling away as fast as he could. Magic had been performed mere inches away from his face! There was a powerful sorcerer on his hearthrug! He should have been terrified. He _should_ have been shouting for the guards.

Instead, he sat and watched, mesmerised, as Merlin put the toasted marshmallow into his mouth, and ate it.

“So, what else can you do?” he heard himself say.

Merlin swallowed the marshmallow, and licked off his fingers, grinning. “What would you like me to do?”

 

…

 

Arthur Pendragon woke up thirsty.

For a moment he lay motionless on his back, trying to work some saliva around his mouth, and then he sat up.

Across the floor, beyond the archway, lay a tube of crumpled blankets, with tousled dark hair sticking out of one end. The tube wasn’t moving.

Arthur got out of bed, carefully and quietly. He poured himself a mug of water from his washjug, and drank it, and then drank a second, and then a third. And then he relieved himself into his chamber pot. The royal body satisfied, he padded over the floor to check on the royal servant.

Even asleep, the poor boy looked ill. His eyes were shut, but he was frowning, as if wondering what was wrong with his sleep, and his face was pale. One hand peeped over the edge of the blanket, curled loosely under his chin, as if considering inserting its thumb into his mouth.

Merlin’s expression last night was still fresh in Arthur’s mind.

He had been taking huge delight in using his magic, laughing aloud with infectious glee. And he’d been taking just as much delight in sharing his magic with Arthur.

It had horrified Arthur, at first, to see an alien irridescence flash across those familiar warm eyes, but as soon as the magic passed Merlin returned to himself. And eventually, he became fascinated with the light, so that he asked to see it again and again, and Merlin had obliged again and again.

He’d performed magic, anything Arthur could think of, and then he’d grinned gleefully, each time, as if magic was the most fun thing in the world.

It was impossible to relate such delight to the dark sorcerous spectres that haunted his father. And Merlin had been using magic this way since he was ten? What would a ten-year-old peasant boy know about evil? But his father would not care. He wouldn’t care about toasted marshmallows, or about the flames dancing across Merlin’s eyes and taking Arthur’s breath away every time, or about that infectious grin.

Arthur felt a clutch of fear at his heart.

Arthur straightened up, resisting the urge to brush the tousled hair, and tiptoed over to his door. A guard stood in the corridor, and he approached at Arthur’s beckoning. In whispers, Arthur ordered him to stop the first maid he saw go by with some of Gaius’s remedy, and divert a vial of it into the Prince’s room.

Arthur was sitting behind his desk, entering last night’s events into his journal, when the lump on the floor made a noise.

It said, “Ooh-u-r-rh.”

It moved too, feebly. The tousled hair drew further down into the blanket, the lump’s hands were wrapped around its head, and its knees drew up closer to its body.

Arthur put down his pen, pushed back his chair, and went over to have a closer look. He bent down over the lump, his hands on his knees. “Good morning,” he greeted. “I’d have woken you up sooner, but I’ve been informed that this is an experience that needs to be savoured at its own speed.”

Merlin rolled over onto his back without letting go of his head. He opened one dark eye slowly to look up at Arthur, and then quickly squeezed it shut again. “Call Gaius,” he rasped. “I think I’ve been poisoned.”

“Oh, come now, Merlin. It can’t be as bad as all that, surely?”

The look on his face reminded Arthur of his expression when he’d drunk the poisoned wine intended for Arthur – the disbelieving hurt of a child. He had his eyes screwed tightly shut, and his knuckles pressed into his temples. “Arthur, I think I’m dying. Really. Please, call Gaius?”

“You’re not dying, Merlin! You just have a little bit of a hangover, that’s all.”

He watched, curiously, as Merlin put both hands over his eyes. He was working his mouth, swallowing repeatedly. “A … little bit … of a hangover?” he whispered, from behind his hands.

Arthur lowered himself to sit on his heels. “Come on, Merlin. Sit up, and put some of Gaius’s remedy into you. It’s not that bad. You’ve just had a bit too much to drink last night.”

“A bit too much?” Merlin croaked. “I’m not ever, never drinking so much again, ever. I swear it! Never again. On my father’s grave – I’ll never touch the stuff again!”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Arthur told him. “Now, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to sit up, and you’re going to take this bottle, and you’re going to drink it like a lamb, and then you’re going to feel better.”

“You don’t have to shout about it,” Merlin whispered. He sat up very slowly, as if his whole body hurt, without opening his eyes. Arthur pressed the little vial into his fingers and watched closely as he uncorked it and lifted it to his lips.

Then he paused, and opened one eye to look at the little bottle. “This is Gaius’s hangover cure.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I helped him make this.” He opened the other eye, to regard the bottle doubtfully. There were two vertical frown lines between his brows.

“Yes, probably you did, Merlin.”

“I know what’s in it.”

“Well,” Arthur said, reasonably, “you can drink it, or you can suffer through your hangover without it. Your choice.”

Merlin closed his eyes again. He held the vial in front of him, and sighed deeply. “I’ll drink it.” He lifted the vial to his lips again and drank off the whole lot. “Ee-u-rgh.” He shuddered.

“That’s better.”

Merlin was still sitting on the floor. Now he lowered his fingers to stare accusingly at Arthur. “You don’t have a hangover.”

“I never have hangovers,” Arthur said. He moved back to his table and sat down in his chair, crossing his ankles. “I’m lucky that way.”

“Oh, I hate you.” He lay down on the floor again, and drew the blanket around himself.

“I’ve heard that line before, too. If it’s any consolation, Merlin, it’s said to be a gift that wears off eventually.”

“Oh, poor you!” Merlin said, sourly. “Oh, I think I’ll just lie here and die, now. This is the worst Yule ever. Ever!” The floor couldn’t have been comfortable, but Merlin looked as if he was trying to cuddle up on it. Or fall through it. He pulled the blanket up over his head. “What on earth happened last night?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“Uh.” Merlin spoke through the blanket. “I remember bringing in the mead. And I remember you asking me to join you. And – uh – then it all sort of goes blurry.”

Arthur sat still. “You don’t remember anything after that?”

“No.” The blanket shook its head, and then made a pained noise.

“Nothing comes to mind? Nothing at all? How about marshmallows? Do marshmallows ring any bells?”

“No.”

Arthur put his elbow on his armrest and rubbed his lips thoughtfully. A saying of his father’s had come to Arthur’s mind. _Two people can keep a secret, Arthur, if one of them is dead._ Or, too drunk to remember that there was any secret. That was better. “It’s probably better if you don’t remember.”

“Oh, dear.” Merlin pulled the blanket down again, to stare at Arthur in horror. Arthur was glad to see that at least colour was coming back into his face. “Arthur. What did I do last night?”

Arthur waved the question away. “Nothing much. You were too drunk to know what you were doing.”

“I did something embarrassing, didn’t I?” The remedy had worked extremely well. His face had gone the opposite of pale – he was blushing. “And Sir Kay was here. Sir Kay will tell everyone. Sir Kay will pay a town crier to make sure the whole city knows.”

Arthur grinned. “Don’t worry about Sir Kay. He’d left by the time you really got into stride. The only person laughing at you was me, and that’s not new. At least you didn’t see fit to use the dinner plate under my bed as a chamber pot, eh?”

“But what did I do?” Merlin said plaintively.

Merlin wasn’t going to stop nagging until he had some sort of answer. Gaius’s remedy worked astonishingly well. Arthur sighed. “It’s not so much something you did. You didn’t drink very much, but it went straight to your head, extremely fast. You’re what we call a cheap drunk, Merlin. A very, very cheap drunk.”

“Oh.” Merlin dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his cheeks. His eyelashes were fluttering. He was still wearing that anguished expression.

Arthur continued. “Actually, if you think about it, _this,_ ” he made a little circling motion with his index finger, indicating the room, “is as safe a place as any to find out something like that about yourself. Imagine if you’d been drinking in some tavern in the Lower Town. I would really advise you to stay away from mead, in future. And red wine. And ale, probably. And beer. Actually, stay away from all kinds of alcohol from now on. Just to be safe?”

“Oh,” said Merlin, and he collapsed backwards onto the floor again, his hands pressed to his head. “Arthur, you have no idea how much I want to stay away from all kinds of alcohol right now.”

“Not just right now. Ever!” Arthur hardened his voice into the tone he used for giving orders. _Two can keep a secret,_ he told himself. “Merlin, I want your word.”

“My word?”

“I want your word, on your honour as – as – as whatever peasants swear they are when they swear. I want your word that you will never get drunk again. It’s not safe for you. You … stand too close to the throne, and you hear too many royal secrets.”

Merlin looked at him. “On my mother’s life. I won’t get drunk again. I swear.”

“Good.”


	3. The battlements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a big fat spoiler for Queen of Hearts, Season 3.

The battlements of Camelot are a good place to ruminate, or to have private conversations. During the day, the streets below teem with activity, a thousand distractions to gaze upon, if one is alone, or if one wishes to avoid the eyes of another.

At night, it is dark and private, up here. The crisp air is soothing, and the patrolling guards know well that a certain prince likes to come here, to stare at the twinkling lights of his inheritance, and think.

Tonight, he is not alone, up here in the dark.

“I know your secret.”

There is a brief silence.

“You do?”

“I’m not entirely oblivious, Merlin. I do occasionally notice things. I’ve known since yesterday.”

“And … you’re not angry?”

“No. I am not angry. I am a little sad that you did not tell me yourself, but I cannot blame you, not in this court. And I certainly could never be angry with you. You saved Gwen’s life, you know. That is a debt that I think I will never be able to repay.”

“Don’t mention it, Arthur.” The speaker sounds embarrassed.

“I won’t. Your secret is safe with me. And I think no-one else has put two and two together.”

There is a another short silence, and then a heartfelt sigh.

“Oh, this is such a relief. I’m so glad you finally know the truth! You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to tell you, Arthur.”

“Well, I know now. And here we are. Who else knows?”

“Well, Gaius has known ever since I got here. And my mother, obviously.”

“Ah, well, obviously. She of all people would know. It’s not as if she could avoid knowing her own family.”

“And Sir Lancelot.”

“Lancelot?”

“He found out by accident. Arthur – what gave the game away?”

“Your disappearance yesterday had very strange timing. Gwen is in trouble, and yet that’s the day you choose to go carousing in the tavern? I don’t think so, Merlin. I know you better than that. You would never abandon a friend in trouble.”

“Ah. I didn’t consider that.”

“And then once I thought about it, I realized that old man really, really looked familiar.”

“Gaius said it’s something about my eyes.”

“It was. But I don’t think anyone else will have noticed. I know you very well, that’s all.”

“I know. We knew it would work, but you were the one person we were worried about.”

“And of course, I know perfectly well I wasn’t enchanted at all. I remember all too well what enchanted love feels like, and what I feel for Guinevere is not it.”

“So… “ This time, the silence between them is longer, and when it is broken the speaker’s voice is serious. “Arthur, I have to ask. Just to set my mind at rest. Do you still believe that all magic is evil? That all magic-users are evil?”

“I cannot, after this. Guinevere lives, doesn’t she? And … I have had a suspicion for a while that there was a sorcerer here, hiding in Camelot, somewhere. I thought he was an ally, but for the life of me I couldn’t imagine _why._ But now it all makes sense. _You_ are here.”

“Yes. Here I am. Gods above, Arthur!” There is a sudden wild laugh. “I’ve been _dying_ to tell you, for so long! Go on, Arthur! Ask me anything. Anything at all. I bet you’re curious.”

“Hm. What relation is he to you? Your grandfather? I thought maybe he might be your father’s father, because nobody in Ealdor mentioned that you had a grandfather called Dragoon, and they would have, if he was Hunith’s father. Unless he’s your great-uncle.”

There is a loud cough. “He’s – Wait, what? Dragoon – Oh. _Oh-h-h._ Yes. My grandpa."

"Is he?"

"Yes. Yes, you’re right, he’s my father’s father, and nobody in Ealdor has ever met him.”

“Dragoon … the _Great._ I’ve heard rumours that the Druids say that there’s a powerful sorcerer here named Emrys. Is that him?”

“Um, Emrys ... that’s his _other_ name. Yes. Emrys and Dragoon are the same person. If anyone tells you about Emrys, that’s Dragoon. Oh-h-h, my life is too damned complicated!"

"Well, I hope this simplifies things for you, Merlin, now that I know. Is Dragoon a Druid?”

“No. He’s not a Druid at all. I don’t rightly know what kind of sorcerer he is, except that he’s very powerful. Even he doesn’t know what he’s capable of. He’s learning all the time what he can do. Or … so he says.”

“Where does he live?”

“Er. In the woods. Actually, he likes living in the woods – it’s best just to leave him there.”

“I hope he stays there. If my father finds him …”

“You wouldn’t be able to find him anyway. You wouldn’t see him unless he wanted you to. He hides himself, so that nobody runs into him by accident.”

“But he is not an enemy of Camelot?” The speaker’s voice is very serious now, the prince and not the lover. “He is an ally? In spite of my father?”

“Oh. Um, he knows you’re not your father. He sees you through my eyes. He … quite likes you, Arthur.”

“Do you communicate with him often? Can you get a message to him?”

“Yes. He knows what’s happening in Camelot almost as soon as it happens.”

“Merlin, if I give you a letter, will you pass it on to him? Assuming he can read?”

“Don’t worry, I can read it for him.”

“I want to write to him and tell him how much I owe him for what he’s done over the past few years.”

“Oh, Arthur. Trust me, he knows.”


	4. The duel

The knights had been hunting all day, but it was time to give up. They had stalked patiently, quietly, using all the tricks they knew, for hours and hours, but their best efforts had met with no success. They were alone in this valley, for no peasants cut wood here, and no-one else hunted here, but it seemed as if the game knew they had been coming, and had moved out of their way.

The forest around them was no wide, airy plantation. This was the thickest, darkest part of the King’s Forest. It was a living mass of plants; trees and bushes and vines and leaves that were all wound and tangled together. Walking through it was a trial, and seeing further than a few feet, impossible. They pushed through, the way insects crawl through a sponge – tiny creatures crawling lost inside a solid mass. Slowly, they picked their way along a knee-high path, wide enough only for one man to put one foot in front of the other.

It was always cool in the deep forest, but the coolness was being reinforced by a clammy dampness. The mist was rising all around them. It was barely perceptible now, no more than a pallor, so that it seemed that the trees around them receded in ranks like stage scenery - but it was thickening quickly, and when it came down fully it would be as if it were night. They would spend a miserable night huddled under their cloaks, if they did not find their camp soon.

Prince Arthur paused for breath, and leaned his crossbow against the trunk of the nearest tree. “I think we are heading too far downhill,” he said. He wiped sweat from his brow, and stared around at the forest. “The camp is further up, and to our right.”

Behind and below him, Sir Leon frowned. “I don’t recall coming down such a steep gradient this morning, my lord,” he disagreed, politely as ever. “I think we are aiming too far uphill.”

Arthur put his hand on the bark of the tree, and stretched his head back to stare straight up the trunk. High overhead, the patches of sky visible through the canopy were a pearly white. It was impossible to see the crest of the ridge, through the dense forest. He sighed. “I’ll wager you a shilling we’re too far downhill.”

“You’re on, my lord,” Sir Leon agreed. “It can’t be far now, anyway. There is warm food, and a warm fire waiting for us.”

“I certainly _hope_ Merlin has food waiting for us,” Arthur replied. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

“I’m hungry enough to eat Merlin, my lord.”

“Hey! Nobody is allowed to eat my servants but me,” Arthur mock-warned him, wagging his finger at him. “And anyway, there’s not much meat on him. If I didn’t know better, I would say his master didn’t feed him.”

They moved on, their breaths rasping. The mist was thickening every minute, but they had to be near the crest of the ridge now.

 _“E-e-em… ry-y-s!”_

Both hunters came to a stop.

The shout had rung through the trees. It was a man’s voice, deep and loud, but the trees spread the sound so that it was impossible to pinpoint the direction it came from.

“That wasn’t Merlin,” Arthur said. He swivelled on the path to stare back at Sir Leon just behind him, wide-eyed. “He’s ahead of us, somewhere.”

“Sounded close, my lord,” Sir Leon agreed.

 _“E-e-em… ry-y-s!”_

“Whoever he is, he does _not_ sound happy,” Arthur said. He began climbing the path again.

 _“E-e-em… Ry-y-s! Come out! And fight me!”_ the shout echoed. _“Show yourself, coward! I have come to claim my revenge for Nimue!”_

“Who issues a challenge half-way up a mountain?” Sir Leon grumbled as he climbed.

“Someone who doesn't joust? Come on. We need to hurry,” Arthur said. “Merlin is up there alone somewhere.” He pressed on.

They both stopped short again as a new voice cried out, the words indistinct, the pitch higher.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak again, but his words were drowned by a thundering roar. Sir Leon clapped both hands to his ears. The sound was so loud, it seemed to batter the air around them, striking the air like a wind.

The roar was followed immediately by a series of tearing noises, as if someone was ripping an immense sheet of canvas in two. They were washed suddenly in a gust of warm air.

“It’s a duel between sorcerers!” Arthur shouted over the cacophony, wild-eyed, with one hand pressed over one ear. “And Merlin is up there!” He launched himself up the slope at a run.

Sir Leon lunged at him from behind. “You can’t go up there!” he shouted at Arthur. He grabbed his prince by the back of his shoulders, driving him down.

Sir Leon’s greater weight succeeded in driving Arthur to the ground, but Arthur twisted under him, and struck at him with the shaft of his crossbow. “Get off me!” he roared.

“No, Arthur!” Sir Leon struggled to restrain him, and the two men fought each other on the ground. Sir Leon planted one knee in the middle of Arthur’s back, and pinned both his arms to the ground. Arthur bucked wildly under him. His legs lashed out, kicking up clumps of leaf-litter.

The gusts of hot wind, propelled by whatever the sorcerers were doing up there, had driven away the mist. Up the slope, the treetops were being silhouetted by flashes of violent coloured light. The terrible noises continued.

“Get off me!” Arthur roared, his voice blending into the racket. “Merlin is right in the middle of it!”

“If you go up there they’ll kill you!” Sir Leon shouted into Arthur’s face. “They’ll both kill you, Arthur!”

“Let me go! They’re going to kill him!” He twisted and writhed with all his strength. “I order you to let me go!”

“I can’t let you throw your life away for a servant!” Sir Leon shouted back. “Not even Merlin!”

Arthur thrashed one last time, then arched his back, twisted his head to one side, and screamed with all his might. “Merlin!” His voice was swallowed up in the roar of battle, uselessly.

And then there was a spurt of loud crackling, as if a giant pine log had been tossed into a bonfire – followed by a human shriek. The shriek sliced the air, and then cut off, abruptly.

There was silence.

Arthur went limp under Sir Leon. Sir Leon released his wrists. “I think it’s over, my lord.”

“Get off me,” Arthur ordered coldly, and Sir Leon shifted his weight off Arthur and stood up. Arthur rolled himself to his hands and knees, scattering leaves, breathing heavily. Sir Leon offered his hand to help him up, but Arthur ignored the hand and pulled himself up by a tree branch. He picked up his crossbow. “Do not ever do that to me again,” he rasped.

Sir Leon bowed his head. “I’m sorry, my lord, but if I see you about to throw your life away again, I _will_ stop you.” He stooped to pick up his own crossbow, which had fallen away downhill in their struggle.

When he straightened up again, Arthur was already stalking away uphill.

“My lord!” Sir Leon called.

Arthur turned back, his eyes pebble-hard with anger, and his jaw clenched. “I’m going to find Merlin,” he said.

“One of the sorcerers might still be up there,” Sir Leon pointed out.

“I don’t care. He’s likely to be exhausted, and if I find him…” he hefted the crossbow to show what he would do. “I will find Merlin, whether you come with me or not.”

Sir Leon looked at him for a moment, and gave a short bow. “I will come with you, my lord,” Sir Leon said. “Always.” He followed Arthur. They climbed again; Arthur in the lead, made reckless by fear, and Leon in the rear, made cautious by the same emotion.

Arthur stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Merlin!” They waited, but there was no answering cry.

“Merlin probably ran away as soon as the shouting started, my lord,” Sir Leon called. “He may not even be up here any longer.”

“Merlin has all the self-preservation skills of a month-old kitten,” Arthur chided him, worry straining his voice. “He wouldn’t have the wits to run away.”

“He can take care of himself, my lord.”

“Merlin only came up here with us because I asked him to. I _cannot_ go back to Camelot and tell old Gaius I got his apprentice killed. He loves Merlin like a son.”

Sir Leon stopped, leaning on a tree to catch his breath. “Nor can I go back to the King and tell him I let _his_ son get killed for the sake of a servant. Even though I do know Merlin is much more than a mere servant.”

“No, you’re wrong. He _is_ a mere servant,” Arthur disagreed, stopping to look back at him. “And that’s exactly my point. It is all very well for you and me to ride off to face death or glory in battle – we are knights, and that is our duty. Merlin is not. If I ask him to ride after me all over Albion, it’s my duty not to let him come to harm. He can’t protect himself.” He turned and pressed on up the ridge. “I have to protect him.”

Sir Leon followed. “He’ll be all right, my lord. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“He doesn’t even carry a sword, Leon!” He redoubled his efforts, using his free hand to grasp branches and trunks to pull himself upward.

They broke out onto the battlefield without warning, and came to a sudden halt.

Behind them, the forest was thick and shadowy with greenery. Before them, it was lifeless. Dead. A long strip of destruction lay open to the sky, stretching away to left and right of them, uphill and downhill.

The scene was still and grey, as if the wild summer forest had been transformed into an orchard in the depths of winter. The trunks of the trees still stood, isolated spikes standing like sentries, but they were black, and bare as nails. Their leaves, and all the bushes around the trunks, had been scoured away. Not a speck of green remained – everything was white or grey. The air was clouded with tiny particles of white ash that hung in the air. Deep furrows had been carved into the forest floor, running up and down the slope as if gouged out by huge hands.

Sir Leon was a man of uncommonly few words, not given to exclamations, but even he gave vent to his shock. “Gods above,” he said. Arthur simply sucked in his breath and stared.

The two men looked at each other. “Merlin is somewhere here,” Arthur said, reminding both of them why they had not immediately run away. They began to walk uphill, following the cleared swath, climbing over the debris and between the naked trees. Neither of them shouted, perhaps cowed by the destruction around them.

The mist was only slowly reappearing here, driven away by blasts of magic, but the white ash in the air was settling slowly. In minutes both men’s hair, and Sir Leon’s beard were speckled with it. The sky was grey, the trees were grey, the very air around them was grey. All colour, all greenery, seemed to have been extinguished from this place.

Sir Leon came to a stop, staring down. “Prince Arthur!” he called, hoarsely.

In a moment, Arthur was at his side, and knelt.

On the ground lay … a figure. It could not be called a corpse, although it may once have been a man. It still held a man’s shape, and it lay sprawled on its back. It was uniformly grey, as grey as cold ash, and had a strange porous appearance.

Arthur put out one finger, and touched the grey shoulder gently. The ash crumbled where he touched it, so that when he pulled his hand away in disgust the imprint of his finger remained.

“This must be the loser of the duel,” Sir Leon said.

“Unless this is the winner, and we’re inhaling the loser,” Arthur said. The two knights looked at each other, and Sir Leon shuddered and began brushing the white ash from himself.

Arthur climbed to his feet, and they continued to climb. Without a word, they separated, each picking his own way a few yards apart.

The mist was returning, supplementing the falling ash. The bleak ugliness of the trees was mercifully disappearing behind the forgiving veils of the mist. It was grey, all grey, and Arthur was almost upon it before his eyes picked out the splash of blue shirt. “Merlin!” he shouted.

Merlin lay on his side, unmoving. His back was against the roots of a tree, and his long limbs were flung out limply on the ground before him like a sleeping hound’s. His face and clothes were speckled with white ash. Arthur dropped over him, touching his face, feeling for his pulse. “Merlin!” he called, and put his palm under the warm, pale cheek. He gave Merlin’s head a little shake. “Merlin! Can you hear me? Merlin?”

The dark eyes did not open, nor did the white face so much as twitch. Merlin didn’t move.

Sir Leon was there now, kneeling alongside Arthur. He picked up Merlin’s arm to feel his pulse. “He’s alive,” he said to Arthur.

“Just barely. He’s been burned.” Merlin’s eyebrows and hair was singed, and the palms of his hands had been burned pink. “He must have been right between them.”

Sir Leon sat back on his heels and stared around. The trees on this upper slope were all blackened on their downhill sides – the side against which Merlin lay. “It doesn’t look like he made any attempt to hide away, my lord.”

“I’ll wager the bastards didn’t give him the chance,” Arthur said angrily, his broad jaw clenching. “We need to get him somewhere safe and warm, or he’ll die of shock.” He reached up to undo his cloak’s clasp, and flung the long garment backward off himself.

Sir Leon was still staring around. “The trees where we found the … thing …were all burned on their uphill sides.”

“Poor Merlin must have been caught in the middle. They must have been fighting right over his head. Poor Merlin.” He shook his head. “You’d think they’d have had the decency to let the innocents get out of the way first!”

Sir Leon stood up. Two feet away, a deep gouge had been scraped out of the soil. It ran away into the mist downhill. Just short of where Merlin lay, though, it ended abruptly, as if whatever had dug the gouge had struck something immovable. Sir Leon stared at it, and scrubbed at his beard, doubtfully.

“Prince Arthur … I’m not sure that we don’t have the wrong end of the stick, here,” he said, hesitantly.

Arthur had his cloak spread out, and he was trying to roll Merlin into it. “Help me with him, Sir Leon!”

Sir Leon stared at the gouge for a moment, frowning. The tendrils of mist were already beginning to obscure it. He shook his head. “Where do you think the other sorcerer has gone to?” he asked, bending to help his prince.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Arthur said. “We’ve found Merlin and he’s alive, and that’s all that matters. Let the damned sorcerers look after themselves.” Arthur had rolled the cloak snugly around Merlin, and secured it around his shoulders. Now he pushed his one arm under Merlin’s shoulders, and the other under his knees. “Take his other side,” he ordered Sir Leon.

Sir Leon put his arms under Merlin’s shoulders and knees, opposite Arthur. Together, the two knights raised Merlin between them. He hung limply, his feet dangling, his head lolling loosely against Arthur’s shoulder. He let out a groan.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked.

He was rewarded with another groan, and Merlin moved his head feebly.

“I’ve got you,” Arthur soothed. “You’re safe. You’re going to be all right, Merlin. Come on,” Arthur said to Sir Leon. “We can get out of this place, and into the trees.”

They began picking their way down, their progress impeded by the fact that they had to manouevre the limp Merlin between them. The mist was coming down, thicker and faster, and the light was failing. They were in for a miserable night.

“Emrys,” Sir Leon said thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that name, my lord. In the taverns, they say the Druids talk about a sorcerer called Emrys.”

“So?” Arthur grunted.

“The Druids say he's the greatest sorcerer in all Albion. They say he lives hidden, somewhere around Camelot, waiting to serve the Once and Future King.”

“If he wants to see his precious Once and Future King, he'd better watch out that _I_ don’t catch him first!" Arthur barked. "Look what they did to poor old Merlin here! They didn’t even give him time to get out from between them!”

“My lord, I’m starting to wonder about that…”

“Knights fight, but even the worst of recreant knights has the decency to let the peasants get out of the way first! You know, every so often I think to myself that maybe the time has come to live and let live – and then something like this happens! Who-ever this Emrys is, I hope he knows he has an enemy in me. For Merlin’s sake, if nothing else.”

Sir Leon looked at his prince over Merlin’s head, and nodded, thoughtfully. “Yes, my lord.”


	5. Morgause's truth

Arthur Pendragon was aware that he was cold and wet, even before he was aware that he was awake – cold, and wet, and sore all over his body. It was dark where he lay, and he lay on something utterly unyielding and uncomfortable, but when he tried to move himself he found that he could not.

He awoke properly with a jolt, his eyes flicking open. He pulled his head up from the floor to survey his surroundings.

He was lying on his back on a stone floor. He couldn’t move because his arms were drawn out from his body and chains weighed down his wrists. It was damp and dark because this was a cell. Enough grey light filtered in from the window above that he could see he was alone.

Ah, yes. He knew where he was. He recognised the stonework of that ceiling all too well. Cenred’s cell.

Again. He groaned.

However, it seemed Cenred had learned from his previous mistake. Arthur wasn’t going to be able to get out of the cell this time without getting out of his chains first, and that he wasn’t going to be able to do.

Arthur leaned his head back onto the floor, with a slight wince as the stone jarred his skull. He assessed his position.

He was chained flat on his back, in a cell which was most likely locked. He was alone. He still wore his mailcoat, but he was disarmed. He couldn’t tell if the tiny dagger in his boot top was still there, but in any case he couldn’t use it to stab anything larger than a hangnail.

He tried to remember how he had ended up here, but, annoyingly, it seemed the memory had disappeared. That was usually a sign that a knight had taken a little bit of a bump to the head. Never mind. Such memories usually filtered back after a while. Usually.

He lay still and tried to rest. There was no benefit in worrying about what would happen to him next. Either he’d be treated as a prince – fairly well – or he would be treated as an enemy general – excrutiatingly badly. The decision was Cenred’s to make.

He had had five men with him, he remembered suddenly. They had been riding somewhere. For the life of him, he could not remember where, or why.

After a while, the cold grey light from the little window faded altogether, leaving him in complete darkness.

He was awoken by voices, somewhere, and when he opened his eyes there was golden light piercing the door’s peephole and framing the doorjamb. The lock crashed noisily, and then the door was opened.

He blinked his eyes against the sudden burning torchlight that came into the cell. Through his eyelashes he saw a cloaked figure entering the cell behind the torch. He saw the gleam of armour beneath the cloak, and a mane of blonde hair.

Oh, what delight. He gritted his jaw. Morgause’s blonde curls fell around her face as she perched on her heels next to his chest. He focused his gaze on her, and realized that he could very distinctly see two of her, one image merged over the other, so that it seemed she had more eyes than she should have.

“Hello, Arthur,” she said sweetly. “How are you faring?”

“Not very well,” he croaked, and paused, shocked at how hoarse his own voice sounded. “As you can see for yourself. What have you done with my men?”

“Ah, your men.” She frowned down at him, tiny lines appearing between her immaculate brows, as if she was genuinely concerned, but he could see the self-satisfaction in her eyes – all of her eyes. “I’m afraid to say, Cenred has had your wounded killed, and the rest have been released to take news of your capture to your father. Apart from your pet enchanter, of course.”

He almost asked ‘what enchanter?’ but held his tongue. Let her be the one to give information away.

She must have seen something in his eyes anyway, because she smiled. “Yes, we have him too.” She leaned forward, and lowered her voice confidingly. “Just between the two of us, it was all I could do to defeat that one. He took a lot of hammering before he went down. I wouldn’t have defeated him at all, were it not for my Agrivaine belting him over the head with a hammer. He lives, of course. It would take more than mere steel to kill one of such power. But he’s safe and sound under the best locks magic can devise. He cannot come to your rescue this time, Arthur.”

“I don’t have an enchanter!” he said.

She laughed at him, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur!” She spoke in descending tones, so that the last repetition of his name came out deep and throaty. It sounded almost sexual, and he restrained a shudder of revulsion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he insisted.

She smiled, and bent down over him like a lover, her hair brushing his face. “Merlin,” she breathed, drawing the name out languidly.

It took him a moment to recognise what she was saying, and for that moment she waited there, waited for a response from him with the patience of a cat waiting for its prey to twitch.

“Merlin is not a sorcerer,” he said, shaking his head.

She sat up again, and brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “Oh, Arthur. Surely you are not such an innocent? You must know what he is! He serves you, after all – the loyal Merlin, always a step behind you, always watching your back. Unless,” she tilted her head, inquiringly, “Unless it is the reverse, and you serve him? Perhaps he wishes to be the power behind the throne some day when you are king? To rule through you?”

He jerked his head away. “You lie, Morgause. Every word from your lips is a lie. Merlin is a true and loyal servant, no more and no less.”

“Mm. But what on earth does a sorcerer of such power see in House Pendragon that is worthy of truth and loyalty? Your miserable father will ransom you, but he won’t spend a farthing on a sorcerer. Perhaps Merlin will join with me instead? Perhaps he’ll grow up, and abandon this silly devotion? Together, he and I could rule the whole of Albion.”

He clenched his fists, and thrashed his arms against the floor in his rage. “You lie, Morgause! You lie!”

She planted her hand on the centre of his chest, and leaned over him again. “I speak the truth, Arthur. I have never told you anything but the truth. I speak the truth about Merlin, as I spoke the truth about your mother. You know I speak the truth. You know Merlin has magic.”

“I know nothing of the sort! I know Merlin. I trust him with my life.”

She laughed at him again. “Oh, Arthur. You are so comical. I would amuse myself with you further, but Cenred has plans for you. At least he has granted me your Merlin, to do with as I choose.” She bent over him again, her hand braced on his chest, her lips by his ear, and whispered, “I am going to enjoy finding out what he is. I’m going to strip all his secrets from him, layer by layer, until he is _all mine.”_

He shuddered and turned his face away. She watched, licking her lips, enjoying his discomfort.

At last, she stood up. She gazed down at him remotely, and he glared back at her.

“Witch!” he hissed between his teeth.

“I suppose where you come from, ‘witch’ is an insult,” she observed.

“Harridan!”

She laughed at him, and took up the torch again. “I might as well release your arms. You’re going to need to eat, at least, if you are to hold up under what Cenred plans for you.” She held out her hand toward the wall, and he closed his eyes so as to not see the magic flare in her eyes. He felt the chain to his right fall free, and then the chain to his left.

Then he heard the door open again, and opened his eyes to find himself alone again, with the light under the door fading away as the torch departed.

He sat up, grateful for that much liberty, and scooted himself backward until his back hit the wall of the cell.

He was still sitting there, hugging his knees, when the light came back. Different voices, this time. He levered himself to his feet in readiness.

The door was unlocked, and pushed open. The figure who entered this time was very small. He looked to be no older than fourteen, and he carried a dish in both hands. He stepped into the cell, and then paused, looking around for the prisoner.

His mouth opened to shout to whoever stood outside, but he was too late. Arthur was already between him and the door. He put his palm into the boy’s back and heaved him face-first deeper into the cell. The two guards outside tried to cram themselves through the door at the same time, fouling each other’s swords, and it was a simple matter then to clout the nearest in the face with a fist full of chainlinks, and then to grab that one’s sword and kill the second man with a quick thrust.

Both men hit the ground at the same time.

One dead, one unconscious, one too young and terrified to give any trouble. Arthur dashed back into the cell to snatch a roll off the plate, and then slammed the door on all three. Then, sword in one hand, roll in the other, he ran up the corridor of cells.

Always so simple. Why were soldiers guarding cells always so lax, anyway? So many people escaped from his own dungeon it was almost as if there was a revolving door down there. He pondered this puzzle as he ran, shoving bread into his mouth with one hand.

He came to a stop at the first corner and took a fast peek around it.

Hullo, what was this, then?

There was a guard here, leaning against the wall with the slumped shoulders of a bored sentry who knows no-one can see him. The lower corridor had been dark, but there was a flaming torch on the wall here, and more light spilling from the open door.

He had a feeling he knew who was in there.

He stepped quickly around the corner as if he owned it, and as he’d guessed, the guard’s first reaction was to jerk upright and try to look as if he was paying attention. Arthur had the element of surprise. The sentry fell.

He sprang into the cell.

The scene before him burnt its way into his mind instantly.

Merlin lay spread-eagled on the stone floor, much as Arthur had, but where Arthur had been left in the dark Merlin was lit up like a feasting table by candlabras on the floor around him. And where Arthur had been bound with chains, Merlin lay bound with what looked like string. Strings stretched out his arms and legs, and a loop of string ran all around him in a wide circle, crossing his wrists and ankles. Outside the circle of string ran another circle of white chalk.

Merlin’s shirt had been pushed up, exposing his chest, and something green glowed just below his breastbone.

Merlin must have heard his arrival in the doorway. He twisted his head around to look at him. “Arthur?” he said. His eyes looked wild in the low candlelight.

Arthur came into the room, and made to step over the string, but Merlin’s eyes went wide. _“Don’t!”_ he shouted, his back arching with urgency.

Arthur paused. “What?”

“I’m tied down with an enchantment! If you jump into the circle you’ll get stuck too.”

Arthur frowned. “What must I do?”

“Rub out the chalk. Make a hole in the circle.”

Arthur stooped by the chalk, and tried to rub it out with his fingers. It wasn’t working, so he bent lower, hawked, and spat on it, and went on rubbing until there was a space of a few inches with no chalk line. He’d broken the circle. Merlin watched him, his head raised and turned sideways.

“Right, now pick up the string – _No!_ not with your fingers! Use the end of the sword.”

Arthur obeyed, slipping the point of the sword under the string and lifting it up gently. It slid down the blade to the crossblade, and he drew the sword up in the air so that it came away from Merlin’s body.

Merlin raised his arm as soon as his hand was free, and Arthur was surprised to see that the end of the string tied to his wrist wasn’t fastened to anything. Merlin snatched at the thing on his chest and flung it away from him as if it was hot.

“Gods!” Merlin hissed. “That was awful. I never want to see one of those things ever again!” Merlin sat up, rubbing his arms and visibly shuddering.

“What was it?”

“I don’t know what it’s called, but it was sucking my own strength out of me to fuel the enchantment.”

“How do you know?” The words came out before he could stop them.

“I could _feel_ it, Arthur!” He seemed to notice his bare chest, and jerkily shoved his shirt down to cover himself. “I could feel it happening.”

Arthur didn’t have time for this now. He didn’t have energy for it now. Later, he could try to come up with an explanation, an explanation that conceded nothing to Morgause’s claims. Later, but for now both of them needed to get out. They could sort out this mess later. Later…

Merlin grabbed his arm as he swayed. “Are you all right?”

He shook off the grip. “I’m fine. Don’t hang on me!”

“Your hair is all bloody where they hit you.” Merlin was gazing at him curiously, his lips parted. “And your voice is a bit funny.”

He put his hand up to the side of his head, and sure enough, his hair was clumped together stiffly like grass. “Forget it! We can deal with it later, or we’ll both die down here. We need to move.”

They left the cell. Merlin took up the torch, and Arthur picked up the sword. They turned in the opposite direction to the one Arthur had come, hurrying along as fast as they dared without sprinting.

The corridor led, not to an hall inside the castle, but into a small high-vaulted square chamber, with a great wooden gateway set into one wall and two other identical passages leading away. It was all empty and dark, and the only sound was the faint hissing of the torch. The gate had a little sally-port cut into it, and they opened it carefully and peered out.

The gate opened out into a torchlit courtyard, surrounded by cloisters. It was deserted at this time of night, but for a pair of horses in the far corner. He could see the gleam of tack, too. Saddled horses. Tied up at a gate. Perfect.

Merlin put his mouth to Arthur’s ear. Arthur flinched, without knowing why, and then realized that the last breath he’d felt there had been Morgause’s. “See the horses?” Merlin breathed.

“I see them.” He pushed the gate open, ready to go out.

Merlin jittered. “Oh. Oh-h-h, I don’t know about this, Arthur. This is too easy. I don’t like this.”

Arthur thrust his face up to his and hissed. “Fine. You just stay here and wet yourself. I’ll go.”

He left Merlin huffing indignantly, but when he slipped out he heard Merlin drop the torch and follow him.

They dashed along behind the cloisters, keeping to the deep shadow against the wall. The horses were tied by the reins to the columns, ready for an pre-dawn ride. They spooked slightly as the two young men appeared suddenly in front of them and hastily began checking their girths and reins.

There was a yell from above.

“Damn!” Arthur barked. He threw the reins loose and tugged the horse’s head around in the direction of the gate.

“Mount, Arthur!” Merlin called, tossing secrecy aside for haste. “I’ll open the gate.”

Arthur grabbed at the stirrup iron to put his left boot into it, and ended up hopping around in a wild circle as the horse shied sideways. He got his right leg over the saddle, just as more shouts echoed from above.

“Who goes there?”

His horse reared. He grappled for reins and balance, concentrating on not falling. An arrow struck the stone alongside his horse and he flinched instinctively, knowing his mail was no protection against a longbow.

“Hurry up, Merlin!” he shouted, fighting the dancing horse with legs and hands.

He heard Merlin squawk something, and there was a bright flash of flame at the gate. Gods, they weren’t going to start throwing Greek fire at them from up there, were they? Or dropping carcasses? No, not so soon, not in a quiet courtyard at night. Not even Cenred was that mad!

And then, thank the gods, he saw Merlin swing up into his saddle.

“Go, Arthur! Don’t wait for me!”

Arthur had a secure seat, and the gates were open in front of him, and he urged the horse forward. It saw the open space in front of it, decided that too many scary things were happening around here, and bolted through the gateway.

Merlin’s horse bolted alongside, so that their knees crashed painfully as they passed through the gateway. Then they were galloping headlong down the hill. The sound of the warning bell pursued them into the dark.

 

…

 

Dawn found them dismounting at a small stream that crossed their path.

They had ridden in silence all through the remains of the night. No words had been needed when Arthur led them off the high road, onto a narrower track that would take them home by a less obvious route, and slowed to a walk to preserve their mounts. No words had been spoken when they rode in the dark, nor when the sky began to lighten.

No words had been said, because Arthur did not know how to say them. He did not know what to say.

Arthur tried to tell himself that he hadn’t seen that flash of light when the gate opened. It could have been a spark or a reflection of moonlight. He tried to plead with his memory, trying to find an explanation, any explanation, of what he’d seen that would contradict what Morgause had told him.

Merlin could not be a magician. If he could only find proof that Merlin was not a magician, he promised himself, then he would laugh at himself, and he would confess to Merlin, and they would share a laugh at Arthur’s gullibility.

No… Merlin could not be a magician.

Arthur could hear the thudding of the other horse’s hooves behind him. He could see, if he turned in his saddle, the familiar skinny shape of Merlin riding close behind him along the narrow path. So familiar, and yet the familiar sight did not reassure him this morning.

Merlin, for whatever reason of his own, also chose to say nothing. They merely rode on, the only sounds the thudding of hooves and the throaty breathing of the horses, and the morning birdsong above them in the canopy of the forest.

The path was only as wide as one horse, but here, where it crossed the stream, the trees backed away to allow a small clearing. The clearing was wide enough for there to be some grass, and for them to see the morning sky overhead. The little stream cut through the floor of the clearing, disappearing into the dense trees mere feet away on either side. It was narrow and shallow, with crystal-clear water bubbling cheerily over the ancient pebbles.

Arthur dismounted. He led the horse to the water, and watched it drink its fill. He heard Merlin dismount a few feet away, and lead his horse alongside Arthur’s.

He couldn’t bring himself to talk to Merlin. Instead, he turned away, and busied himself for a few minutes with checking on the horse, and letting it lower its head to graze.

Leaving the horse, Arthur walked back to the edge of the stream, and knelt. He bent low to the stream, cupping cold water in his hands and drinking. Merlin came up to him as well, sitting on his heels a few feet away.

Arthur gazed carefully at the trees on the other side of the clearing. “We need to talk.”

Arthur’s voice came out sounding harder than he intended. They were the first words either had spoken since the gate had come open last night, since that flash of light in the dark courtyard.

“No,” Merlin said, pulling his neckerchief off. “You need to let me have a look at your head.”

He dipped his neckerchief in the stream, swirling it around in a little pool between the pebbles. He picked it up, dripping, and reached out for Arthur.

“Don’t touch me!” The words burst out before they could be stopped. Arthur sprang to his feet and whirled away.

He looked back to see Merlin still on his heels, the wet neckerchief hanging from his hands. His lips were parted in an open-mouthed expression of surprise and dismay. “Arthur?”

Arthur pointed an accusing finger straight at Merlin’s face, at his innocent expression. “I know what you are,” he whispered.

Merlin froze. Then he shook his head, and stood up slowly. “I’m a physician’s apprentice, and you have had a mighty conk on the head. Let me look at it, Arthur.” He wrung out the neckerchief so that a silver stream of water ran from between his hands, but his eyes remained fixed onto Arthur’s. He took a step closer, holding out the neckerchief. “Let me look at it.”

Arthur sprang backward. “I know what you are!” he shouted, his voice ringing in the quiet forest.

The sword he’d taken from Cenred’s guard was still thrust into the belt of his mailcoat. It was cheap – poor steel, poor workmanship, poor balance and a poor edge – but it was a weapon, and he closed his fist on it and pulled it out.

Merlin stayed where he was. He had closed his mouth, and he was gazing at Arthur with his head lowered and his eyes narrowed. A very cautious expression, wary as a wolf. “I’m … not entirely sure what you’re talking about.”

He pointed the sword at Merlin, “I know what you are. You’re a sorcerer. Do you deny it?”

Merlin closed his mouth, and breathed heavily through his nostrils. “No.”

The quiet admission struck Arthur hard in the chest like a physical blow. “You don’t deny it?”

“I _won’t_ deny it. I won’t lie to you any more. So here I am. I am a sorcerer. I always have been. Arthur…” Merlin’s eyes scrunched up anxiously, “how did you find out?”

“She told me.”

“She?”

“Morgause! She told me what you are! What you intend doing in Camelot.” The memory made his blood freeze, and the sword point came up of its own accord. “How you want to rule Camelot by sorcery,” he hissed. “Using me as your puppet, your figurehead, with you behind my throne, ruling through me. Merlin, lord of Camelot.”

Merlin had begun to shake his head. Slowly at first, then with more agitation, “No. No no no no! Put the sword down, please! Let me explain.” He took a small step toward Arthur, his hands held out as if to a frightened horse.

“Stay back! Take a step toward me, and I swear I’ll run you through!” Morgause’s words from last night echoed in his mind. _It would take more than mere steel to kill one of such power._ “I might not be able to kill you, but I can surely hurt you!”

“No, Arthur!” Merlin stepped back, warily. His eyes were huge, and never left Arthur’s. His face was so pale, it was almost grey.

“All this sorcery in the last few years – it’s all been you, hasn’t it?” Arthur hissed through bared teeth. His stomach was jumping but the point of the sword was steady as a rock. He could see it between them, a slice of steel pointing at Merlin’s eyes. “Did you think you would be able to get away with it forever? How stupid do you think I am?”

“No!” Merlin had gone on shaking his head, endless negation, and now he clutched at his hair in frustration. “No, Arthur! It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really? Then enlighten me, Merlin! Please do! I’d be very interested to learn what your excuse is.”

“You don’t want to listen to Morgause. She twists things. It’s not like that at all!”

“She told me the truth!” he roared. “You confirmed what she said yourself!”

He held the sword ready, and sidestepped around Merlin in a half-circle. Merlin turned on the spot to follow him. Arthur glared over the point of the sword, and hissed, “To think that all this time I have had a sorcerer in my own household – in my own home! In my bedroom! Plotting and scheming and casting spells! Right under my nose! Gods above, I _should_ run you through, right here and now!”

Merlin’s eyes went even wider and he waved both hands frantically in the air. “No, no, no! You don’t want to be doing that!”

“Give me one reason why not?”

“Be – cau – _Oh!_ Oh, oh-oh-oh!” Merlin snapped his fingers, and pointed both index fingers at Arthur. “Because that’s what she wants!”

To his amazement, Merlin broke into a wide grin. The eyes that had been huge dark pools only a second ago had disappeared into the crescent creases of his grin. He snapped his fingers again, and began to dance on the spot. “That’s what Morgause wants! Oh, ho, ho, ho! Oh, she is clever!” he chortled happily.

The sword point drooped. It was one thing to threaten a sorcerer; it was quite another thing to threaten an idiot capering around slapping his thighs with glee. It was like suing a puppy. _“Merlin,”_ Arthur said. He raised his eyebrows, and lowered the sword. “What on _earth_ are you doing?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, but don’t you see it? This is what she wants!”

“All I see is you, hopping and skipping like a leprechaun!”

Merlin stopped capering. He folded his hands neatly in front of himself, briefly playing the biddable servant again. He cleared his throat. “Arthur, listen to me. Morgause told you for a reason. She wants you to kill me, or me to kill you – I don’t think she cares which is which. She thinks you’ll just go, ‘Oh no, a sorcerer!’ and try to lop my head off.”

“Why?”

“Because that is what Morgause does! She knows she can’t set her magic against mine, so she’s setting another weapon against me – you. I’m too strong for her. But she knows I won’t hurt you, no matter what. She’s using you, Arthur.” Merlin took in a deep breath, and then, as if sensing that Arthur was finally listening, he spoke rapidly, his words tumbling out. “Morgause is clever. She doesn’t stand and fight if she thinks she’ll lose. She finds ways to use her enemies’ strengths against them. Like the spell she used to hold me in that cell. You remember that?”

“What’s that got to do with anything else?”

“It has everything to do with it! The magic holding me wasn’t hers, it was mine! My own magic was holding me, running in a loop through the stone and into the circle. Ugh.” Merlin shuddered, and rubbed his hands vigorously over his arms. “She found a way to use my own strength against me. And now she’s using you against me. She knows she can’t beat me with magic.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at his calm assumption that he was stronger than Morgause. “You think you’re stronger than she is?”

“I know I’m stronger than she is. She knows it too. She only managed to beat me the last time because that brat of hers sneaked up and cold-cocked me.”

Arthur had had enough. His head hurt, his heart hurt. “I don’t care which of you two is stronger. Sorcery is sorcery – all equally evil.” He backed away from the stream, with the sword held ready. “And sorcery is against the law of Camelot, a law I am honour-bound to uphold.”

“The law is wrong,” Merlin said.

“Oh, and you’d be the one to judge, sorcerer?” He saw Merlin flinch, and abruptly his appetite for sneering disappeared. He lowered his voice, suddenly exhausted. “I’m going to get on that horse, and I’m going to ride home.” He backed away toward his horse. “Don’t try to stop me.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No, you are not! I don’t want a sorcerer as a servant. You’re fired! Sacked! Let go. I don’t care where you go, but you are not coming with me.”

 

…

By that afternoon, he realized that the figure riding two hundred yards behind him was not going to go away.

Around nine o’clock, he had believed that he had outpaced Merlin. Certainly, he could neither hear nor see him, as he rode along the winding forest paths. Perhaps Merlin had given up, or taken the wrong turning. Arthur rode alone.

By noon, the path he was following broke out of the forest and led out across the moor. A few minutes after that, he’d turned in his saddle, and seen the familiar figure emerge between the trees behind him.

And there he’d stayed. When he trotted, Merlin trotted. When he stopped to let the horse graze, Merlin did too. He didn’t get any closer, but he didn’t get any further away either. The distance between them remained exactly two hundred yards.

By dusk, he was less concerned with his company than with the aching gnaw in his stomach. He should have grabbed more than just the one roll from Cenred’s page. He wondered whether Merlin had eaten anything, either.

Arthur had been assured, by other nobles, that peasants could easily go a few days without food; that they were accustomed to it, and that indeed it had a beneficial, toughening effect on them. He would have asked Merlin, but Merlin was a sorcerer. He had to keep that in mind. Arthur could hardly trot back to ask him an idle question as if nothing had happened.

He drew rein at the intersection with the road that would lead him in a great circle back to Camelot.

There had been an inn here once, but it was burnt out and deserted. All that remained were the stone walls and the bare sooty spike of the chimney. Everything else had collapsed or been burned down, and the tough moor grass was beginning to reclaim the ashes.

There was still a trickle of water in the streambed, and he watered himself and his horse, and then set about picketing the animal for the night. Then he sat on the remains of a stone wall, and sat listening to the miserable wind buffeting the ruins, and watching the shadows of the clouds race each other over the distant face of the moor. His horse was grazing steadily, and he tried not to envy the animal its ability to eat anywhere.

The thudding of hoofbeats came to his ears, and he turned where he sat to see Merlin emerge from behind the ruin.

His heart leapt.

Merlin stopped his horse and sat regarding him for a moment. He was too distant for Arthur to read his face, but even his seat in the saddle looked sombre. Then, without having given any sign or gesture of recognition, he reined his horse around and withdrew the way he had come.

Darkness would fall rapidly on the moor, once the sun had sunk below the horizon. Arthur collected an armful of sticks from what remained of a wicker fence, in order to make himself a fire – for warmth if not for cooking.

He had just succeeded in coaxing a wisp of smoke from the stick he had been vigorously rubbing in a hole in another, when he heard approaching footsteps. He sat back on his heels.

The figure walking up through the gloom was tall and slender. He could see the familiar pale rings of his socks winking over the tops of his boots.

Arthur stood up as Merlin reached him, but Merlin ignored him, and seemed not to see the hand he had reflexively wrapped around his sword hilt. Instead, Merlin came to a stop over the little pyramid of firewood, held his hand out over them with his fingers stiffly arched, and whispered something that sounded a lot like a plea for forbearance.

His eyes flashed briefly with a strange golden iridescence, and instantly flames flared from inside the pyramid of twigs.

Arthur harrumphed in shock. He jumped backward so hurriedly he almost tripped.

Merlin stepped away from the fire without looking at him. He sat down on a fallen stone, with his long legs drawn up, and wrapped his arms around his knees. He stared into the fire, his cadaverous face calm, pensive, self-contained – and then betrayed his careful composure by darting a sidelong glance at Arthur from under his brows.

Arthur stepped forward, carefully, and had a closer look at the fire.

It didn’t _look_ like a sorcerous fire. The flames were the usual golden colour, and they were licking at the sticks in the usual way. He held his hands out over it, and the warmth that rose against his palms was a normal warmth, familiar and welcome as an embrace.

Camelot court etiquette had no polite forms to follow when a sorcerer has just performed magic on one’s behalf – other than the legally-mandated _“Guards! Arrest that man!”_ which was not really useful right now. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Merlin,” he said reluctantly.

He heard Merlin sigh. “We need to talk.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “You can say that again.” He walked around the fire, so that he stood facing Merlin over the flames. He folded his arms over his chest, and stood foursquare. “How many other people know?”

Merlin was still hugging his knees, watching him across the yawning gulf of the firelight. His shoulders rose and fell in a shuddering sigh. “My mother, obviously. My friend Will knew. Gaius. Lancelot.”

Arthur stared at him, struck by an odd pang of jealousy. “Lancelot? Lancelot knows? Why does he know and not me?”

“He saw me. Killing the gryphon needed both his lance and my magic. I helped him, and he saw me.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “You helped him. _Helped_ him. How many times have you … helped me?”

Merlin looked into the fire. “A few times.”

“How many, Merlin?” he barked, annoyed. “How many of my victories have been founded on your deceit?”

“It wasn’t deceit!” Merlin burst out, stung, glaring at him. “I hated hiding it from you! If I could have told you, I would have! I wanted to – you have no idea how much I wanted to! I promised myself that if you asked, I would admit it. I ached to tell you, Arthur, with my whole heart.”

Arthur was too angry to listen. He pushed on, raising his voice. “If Lancelot’s greatest victory wasn’t his, how many of my victories have been secretly yours too?”

“It’s not like that!” Merlin pleaded. “Everything you’ve done, you did. Your courage and skill are all yours. You are a great prince, Arthur, and one day you are going to be a great king, all by yourself, and minstrels will sing your song all over the world.”

“I just need a little help from you here and there, is that it?” Arthur sneered. He turned his back, and stared out across the dark moor. The sky had darkened to a deep charcoal colour, and the first stars had come out.

Behind him, Merlin continued. “Listen, Arthur. If you ride to victory in the tourney on a great horse, the horse has helped you. So, is the victory yours, or the horse’s?”

“And which am I, Merlin – the rider, or the horse?” he sneered.

There was a long silence behind him.

Finally, Merlin spoke, so softly Arthur almost couldn’t hear him. “Morgause put that idea into your head, didn’t she?”

“And what if she did? She told me the truth.” He crossed his hands on his chest, determined not to turn around and face the hurt eyes behind him.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, in the same gentle voice, “Morgause tells the truth, the same way a farmer plays with the water in a sluice. She lets out only as much as she chooses, and she sends it where she wants it to go. She’s done this before, remember? She wanted to kill your father, so she showed you just enough of your mother that you tried to do it for her.”

The mention of his mother made Arthur turn around. He stared down at Merlin. “Go on.” Merlin was still a sorcerer and couldn’t be trusted any more than Morgause, but … for old times’ sake Arthur would hear what he had to say.

“Morgause knows that the only way to get at you is by getting rid of me first, but she knows she can’t kill me herself. But the fact is, every other magician in Camelot is either dead, or has run away from your father. I am the last. Without me, you and all of Camelot, would be completely unprotected. I don’t know why she hates you so much, but without me – she would attack, and Pendragon House would fall.”

Arthur lowered himself to sit down on his heels, and stared into the fire. “I think I know why she hates us. My father has made it his life’s work to wipe out her kind.”

“My kind, too,” Merlin said, softly.

Arthur looked into the fire. “Your kind, too,” he conceded. He looked over the flames at Merlin, and met the sombre eyes.

“I am a sorcerer,” Merlin said. “I’ve always been a sorcerer. I was born a sorcerer, and I was a sorcerer the day you met me. This is who I am, Arthur. I’m still the same person I was before, only … more powerful.”

Arthur shook his head. “If you’re so powerful, what are you doing here? Why not go and side with her? You two seem to have so much in common. You could rule the whole of Albion together.”

Merlin lowered his head, and looked at Arthur through narrowed eyes. “Is that also something she suggested?”

“What if it is?” Arthur demanded. “You’re a sorcerer, she’s a sorceress. You’re the same, from my point of view.”

“Yes, bu-u-ut … she’s a sorcerer who is trying to kill you. I’m a sorcerer who is trying to protect you. There’s a bit of a difference, from your point of view. In fact, I’d say there’s a _huge_ difference, from your point of view.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you stay in Camelot, if you’re a sorcerer? It’s dangerous for you. Why stay, and risk so much?” He remembered Morgause’s taunt. _Perhaps he wishes to be the power behind the throne some day when you are king? To rule through you?_ “Do you want to be the power behind the throne?”

Merlin paused. “Would that be so wrong?” he asked. “Isn’t that what all your other counsellors and barons want? But … I stay for your sake. You will be my king, and I will be your magician, for as long as I live. It’s my destiny, Arthur, the same way that becoming king is yours. My life’s work is you, Arthur.”

He said it quite matter-of-factly. Arthur looked into the fire, remembering. _What on earth does a sorcerer of such power see in House Pendragon that is worthy of truth and loyalty?_ Morgause’s words came back to him.

For a long time, he sat and watched the flames, acutely aware of Merlin sitting opposite him. The young … magician … sat quietly, too. The flames crackled, and eventually Arthur picked up some sticks and pushed them into the fire.

 _I speak the truth, Arthur. I have never told you anything but the truth._

He remembered the silent pleasure on Morgause’s face, when she’d told him what Merlin was. _He cannot come to your rescue this time, Arthur,_ she’d gloated. Which meant that Merlin had come to his rescue before...

 _Morgause tells the truth,_ Merlin had said.

 _The loyal Merlin, always a step behind you._

 _She knows I won’t hurt you, no matter what._

 _Morgause tells the truth..._

Arthur sat, and stared into the fire, playing over the conversation in his mind. He found that, without consciously deciding it, he had come to a decision.

“Tomorrow this road crosses the border into Camelot,” Arthur said, finally.

“I know,” Merlin agreed.

“You cannot come with me.” Arthur glanced up at Merlin, and forestalled his protests with a raised hand. “Don’t argue with me, Merlin! I won’t denounce you. You’ve nothing to fear from me. But I am not the only person who knows your secret. Morgause knows, too. If it is her aim to drive a wedge between you and me, she will take care that the truth reaches my father’s ears.”

Merlin sat back on his stone. “Ah,” he said, dismayed, and rubbed the back of his head.

“It suits her strategy just as well for him to execute you, as for me to run you through,” Arthur pointed out. “So you will take the other road, and ride away from Camelot. When you settle somewhere, write to me. I will send you support.”

Merlin nodded his head, the picture of the obedient servant, and Arthur had the distinct feeling that behind those dark eyes, the decision had already been made to ignore his command.

“Yes, Sire.”

Arthur sighed. “Be patient, Merlin. Someday you won’t have to conceal yourself,” he promised. “On that, you have my word.”


	6. The Baron's Magician

Merlin pushed the door to Arthur’s borrowed bedroom open. He had the gullet of his saddle over one arm, and his bedroll under the other.

It was quiet, and almost dark. The embers of the fire had died down to a mere red glow, painting the stone walls in a wash of burnt umber and black shadow. He pushed the door gently shut behind him. He cleared his throat. “Sire?” he whispered.

No answer.

“Are you awake?”

There was a snort. “Would you believe me if I said, No?”

He smiled. “No, Sire.”

“What do you _want,_ Merlin?”

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

In the shadows behind the bedposts, Arthur sat up. “Here? What’s wrong with your bed?”

“I haven’t got one, Sire. All the servants sleep on the floor of the great hall, here.”

“What, _all_ of them? Are you sure, Merlin?”

“This castle is too small for everyone to have their own rooms. This isn't Camelot. All of them sleep in the Great Hall, on the floor, and there’s thirty of them, and the snoring has already started. Please, Sire, can I sleep here tonight?”

There was a brief silence. “I have been informed by reliable sources that I snore, too, you know,” Arthur said. Merlin could see the smiling glint of his teeth in the dark.

Merlin grinned back. “Yes, but at least there’s only one of you, and I can always suffocate you with your pillow if you start getting on my nerves.”

“Very well.”

“I’ll sleep over here by the door. You won’t even know I’m here.” Merlin put his saddle down and untied his bedroll. He spread the blankets down and rolled them out, and pulled his formal Camelot livery off. The bright red tunic with its familiar golden dragon joined Arthur’s own over the back of the chair. Then he lay down in his blankets with his saddle as a pillow. He banged his head on the saddle five times as a reminder to wake up on time, and pulled his blankets over himself.

He heard Arthur sigh and roll over. “Good night, Merlin.”

Merlin smiled at the ceiling. “Good night, Arthur,” he said.

Merlin wondered who of the Baron’s household had been evicted from his own chamber to make room for Arthur. There had been some urgent and clandestine whispering going on before dinner, between the Baroness and her servants. But it couldn’t be easy to be a mere Baron, when a visiting foreign prince, on his way back from visiting your king, arrives unexpectedly on your doorstep and expects to be put up for the night.

He had just drifted off to sleep when he was jolted awake by Arthur’s voice. “Merlin!”

“Uh. Yes?”

“You don’t have to sleep there. This is a double bed. You can sleep head-to-foot with me.”

“I don’t mind sleeping on the floor, Sire. I sleep on the floor all the time, if Gaius has a patient.”

“ _I_ mind you sleeping on the floor, Merlin. This is not Camelot, but Camelot servants simply do not sleep on floors, and that's final. Come over here.”

Merlin obeyed. He climbed up out of his blankets, leaving them where they were on the floor. The embers in the grate gave just enough light to see his way to the high bed without falling over anything.

Arthur sat up. He wrapped his fists in his bedclothes and heaved them up so that there was room for Merlin at the foot of the bed. “Here’s one of my pillows,” he commanded, and threw one across the bed so that Merlin had to grab it. “You lie on that side. This is my side. And don’t hog all the blankets.”

 _Even when he’s being nice, he’s still bossy,_ Merlin noted, amused. “Yes, Sire.” He opened the blankets from the bed’s foot, and got in.

The bed was already warm from Arthur’s body. His heels bumped against Arthur’s side, bringing an annoyed hiss. “Sorry,” he whispered, curling up on his side as close as the edge of the bed as he could.

“Better?” Arthur asked.

“Much better.”

“Glad to hear it. Good night, Merlin.”

Merlin smiled away into the room. “Good night, Arthur. Sleep tight.”

“You too.”

…

Merlin woke up to find his feet trapped by a warm weight over his ankles. He sat up.

Arthur had rolled over onto his front in his sleep, laying claim to the whole bed, and one muscular arm was wrapped tightly around Merlin’s ankles in somnolent affection. His handsome face was mashed up against his pillows, and he was snoring confidingly at Merlin’s feet, mouth hanging open.

Merlin sat up on his elbows and watched him, delighted. _I could poke his face with my foot._ Arthur slept on, oblivious. _I could poke his nose with my big toe._

He’d slept very well, bar a sudden awakening when Arthur had proclaimed in an loud, exasperated voice, “It’s a yellow box of toys!” Bizarre nocturnal announcements aside, the bed was better than the floor, and a million times better than sharing the floor with thirty other people. The mattress was soft, and the blankets were warm.

Yes, the bed curtains smelled rather strange, but then so did Arthur. This bed’s owner was going to get his furniture back smelling strongly of armour polish and neat’s-foot oil. Merlin was used to it.

Merlin stretched his arms, and yawned languidly. The room was bright around them, he could hear cocks crowing, and the humour of poking the royal nose with his toes had worn off. It was time for servants to get up.

“I love you too, Dollop-head, but if you want your breakfast, I’m going to need my feet back,” he said softly to the sleeping Arthur. “And I _know_ you want your breakfast.” He extricated himself, one foot at a time, very gently, and got out of bed.

He had learnt, over the years, exactly how noisy he could be in the morning without waking Arthur. Or, maybe noise had nothing to do with it, because Arthur recognised him even in his sleep. Merlin dressed himself in his scarlet Camelot livery, tied up his bedroll, and went out, without causing so much as a hitch in Arthur’s snores.

He came back with a jug of hot water and a clean towel, and found Arthur sitting up in bed with an expression of extreme displeasure on his face.

“Merlin!” Arthur greeted him grouchily, as if something was wrong and it was Merlin’s fault.

“Sire?” Merlin asked, closing the door and setting the jug down on the washstand. _Oh, dear - does he remember getting my toes up his nose?_

“Look at this!” Arthur pushed his sleeves up and thrust both arms out.

Even across the room, Merlin could see the red welts studding his forearms. “Ouch! Mosquitoes?”

“Fleas! _Fleas,_ Merlin! They’re been having a party on me all night. Look at that!” He screwed up his face and began scratching his left arm vigorously.

“Don’t scratch it, you’ll make the itching worse,” Merlin told him.

“Are you bitten?” Arthur threw his blankets off and climbed out his bed.

“No, Sire. Fleas don’t like me. Neither do mosquitoes …”

“How am I going to play the gracious guest, itching like this?” Arthur grumbled.

“… or lice, come to that. Or bedbugs. I don’t think I taste nice. I did get bitten by a cat once, though. Here, I’ve brought your shaving water. And they all eat breakfast together in the Great Hall, here, as soon as you’re ready.”

Merlin whipped up a basin of shaving soap for Arthur to shave with. Arthur always shaved himself, on the sound political principle that nobody but a Pendragon put a blade to a Pendragon throat. While he shaved, Merlin made his bed, put his clothes and armour out, and sat at the table waiting to help dress him in them.

He himself had already washed and shaved – outside under the courtyard pump with the rest of the servants. In his bright red livery, he had stood out amongst the Baron’s blue and grey servants like a walking strawberry. But Arthur also wore his formal red cloak and crown, so at least Merlin wasn’t the only Camelot strawberry.

“These people are really poor,” he mused. He picked up and drew Arthur’s sword and squinted along the length of the blade. It had collected another nick. _You, I’ll sharpen tonight,_ he promised it.

“I think they are where Camelot used to be twenty years ago,” Arthur said to his reflection in the polished metal mirror. “Too many men-at-arms, too few farmers, as my father would say. The King is too weak to stop the barons fighting among themselves, so they quarrel all the time, and _everyone_ ends up worse off.”

“So they should get themselves a new king, then?” Merlin queried, grinning. “Say ‘we don’t like this one, let’s get another?’”

“They _will_ end up getting another,” Arthur said sombrely, not rising to Merlin’s teasing. He began on his other cheek. “Either King Alined will invade and put his son on the throne, or one of the Barons will revolt and seize the crown for himself.”

“And everyone ends up worse off,” Merlin said. “Again.”

Arthur sighed. “Sometimes I wonder, when will it all end? Generation after generation, fighting each other over and over, for the same stupid reasons.”

“If you ask me, what Albion needs is a High King to rule over all the little kings, and settle all the squabbles by decree, the way a king rules all his little barons. Not that anyone does ask me.”

“It’s a nice idea, but any one king trying to raise himself up as High King would immediately be attacked by all the others.”

Merlin put his head on one side, and grinned at him. “He’ll just have to be a better warrior than all the rest, then, won’t he?” Merlin said. “But I’m sure he will be.”

Arthur fell silent, as he guided the razor around his lips.

“Oh, by the way: if anyone asks, I sat up all night across your doorway with a drawn sword at my side.”

Arthur flicked his brows up and down at him queryingly.

“Well,” he explained, “You’re a prince of Camelot and your usual guards aren’t here so I have to guard you instead – I’m a very _diligent_ servant. The maids were very impressed. The head cook was so impressed, she gave me extra porridge.”

Arthur snorted through his shaving soap.

 

…

The Great Hall was only ‘great’ in comparison with the rest of this small castle. _Great Hall?_ Merlin thought. _Arthur’s private chambers back home are larger than this._ The Baron and his family ate on a dais.

Merlin shadowed Arthur in, and followed him up to the daid. He stood behind Arthur’s chair, both to serve him, and surreptitiously to make sure that he ate nothing that had not been passed to him by Merlin, the same way he’d done every meal of this trip.

The Baroness was paying attention to her guest – very close. The third time Arthur laid down knife and fork, to put his hands below the table to scratch his wrists discreetly, she raised her eyebrows. “Are you well, my lord?” she asked.

“I am very well, thank you,” he replied politely. “I have a few fleabites this morning, that is all.”

There was a short moment around the table, during which all the hosts tried to look at each other. The Castellan looked at the Fiscal, who looked at the Seneschal. The Seneschal looked at the Baroness, and the Baroness looked at the Baron. The Baron looked panicked.

“Were you, ah…?” His words petered out. He glanced at his lady, wildly, as if she could supply a better choice of words, but she just flicked the corners of her mouth down at him, in a wordless sign of dismay. “Did you get them …”

 _Yes,_ Merlin asked himself, _how exactly do you ask your royal guest whether your house gave him fleas?_ Arthur was not the sort of prince who would hold something like that against his hosts, but the Baron didn’t seem to know that. Merlin wondered what sort of prince he was used to.

“These things happen,” Arthur said smoothly, waving away the problem with his fork. “I have spent enough nights on campaign not to be bothered by the small nuisances of travel.”

The Baron was still frowning. “If I may suggest … I have a man in my household who usually takes care of these things for me,” he said. “He has … special skills. If you are planning to stay another night, Sire, perhaps I can have him treat your chambers? And your clothing?”

“I must ride on, Baron, no later than ten o’clock,” Arthur said, and if Merlin hadn’t known better he’d have thought that regretful expression was genuine. Arthur was as eager to get home as he was. “But now you have piqued my curiosity. What sort of special skills?”

There was another of those short cross-staring silences, ended by the Baroness. “Sire, we keep a household magician here.”

Merlin almost dropped the empty plate he was taking away from Arthur’s place. A slice of bacon-rind flipped to the floor and was instantly snapped up by the Baron’s terrier. _A magician – here?_ he thought. _Why didn’t I notice him last night?_

“A fine man, with years of experience. He has served my family faithfully for decades,” the Baron said, a little bit plaintively.

“A magician?” Merlin could not see Arthur’s face, but he heard the thoughtful tone of the prince’s voice. “A household magician – what a novel idea. And he can take care of fleas?”

From his vantage point behind Arthur’s chair, Merlin could see the perceptible release of tension in the Baron’s shoulders. The prince didn’t appear upset about the fleabites, and he wasn’t demanding the magician’s head on a plate. “Yes, Sire,” the Baron said. “It’s one of many services he does me – as well as predicting the weather, purifying the water, diverting lightning – all sorts of things.”

“Well,” Arthur said. “By all means, Baron, send for your magician. I would like to see him do his work. It is something I have not yet seen.”

“Of course, Sire,” the Baron agreed, and he gestured one of his servants away.

…

The man who approached the high table ten minutes later was old, with close-cut grey hair concealing his bald spot. He wore black robes, decorated with silver thread in intricate (and to Merlin’s expert eye, completely meaningless) sigils. He wore a heavy silver ring on his right hand, with a brightly-polished obsidian carving set in it.

A chill ran up Merlin’s spine, with such strength that he shivered. He could feel something on the old man's person that crawled with active magic. He felt every hair on the back of his neck and his arms stand stiffly.

The magician climbed onto the dais, and bowed low. “You have need for my services, my lord,” he announced, hoarsely.

The Baron set his goblet down on the table. “Your highness, may I present to you my household magician, Magister Balthazar.”

Arthur nodded his head, but said nothing. Merlin, standing behind him, could not see his face, but his sense of uneasiness continued.

The Baron continued. “Do you feel prepared to perform magic today, magister?”

The old man bowed low. “I perceived in the auguries last night that my services would be called upon today, my lord, and I have prepared myself.”

“Prince Arthur wishes to observe your magic, magister. Do you believe that this is a good idea?”

The magister rocked back on his heels. “The omens have said that today is an auspicious day for the use of magic, and that my actions will meet with success. The stars and the leys both correspond in a north-south axis, with _Punica granatum_ at its nadir. Hecate will smile upon us this day, provided,” he raised a counselling finger, “ _Provided_ we reconcile his highness’s biilio-cristal width with Mercury.”

Merlin had difficulty not choking. Perhaps it was his training as a physician’s apprentice, but he didn’t see what Arthur’s biilio-cristal width had to do with Mercury. Or with magic. _Or with anything at all, really, since it’s quite clear Arthur won’t need the services of an accoucheur anytime soon._

The magister continued. “My guides into the spirit world have informed me already that I would be asked to perform magic to rid the Prince’s chambers of unwanted inhabitants. Fleas, I believe, although the spirits are often not precise about these temporal matters.”

“That’s very good! I’m impressed, Magister Balthazar,” Arthur said. He looked around. “I believe we are all finished with breakfast. Do you have any objections to performing your magic now?”

The magician bowed. “I am at your complete disposal, Sire.”

…

They decamped to Arthur’s bedroom.

Merlin and the Baron’s squire dragged the room’s two chairs around to face the room, so that their betters could sit in them, while the magician hauled up his robes and got down on his knees. The Baron sat down in the one chair, while Arthur sat in the other, his chin propped up on his fist, watching the magician prepare. Behind the Baron’s chair, his squire took up an attentively invisible stance against the wall.

Merlin picked up the pewter water jug from the table. “A mug of water, Sire?” he asked Arthur, but Arthur waved his offer away without taking his eyes off the magician, who was bending over on hands and knees, examining the floorboards from a few inches’ distance.

Merlin kept the jug, but withdrew to stand behind the magician. He didn’t want to find out the hard way what magical device the old man was carrying. He was ready to bring the heavy pewter base of the jug down on the old man’s head if he aimed so much as _Blessed be_ in Arthur’s direction.

After a few minutes of silence, the magician sat up. “Yes,” he pronounced judgement. “It is as I feared. The fleas have impregnated the floorboards. It is time.”

“And … have you reconciled Mercury to my … bilious crystals yet?” Arthur asked, frowning.

The magister smiled gently. “Never fear, Sire, I know what I am doing. I discharged my duty to Hecate last night, when I foresaw that I would be performing magic today.”

“I see.” Arthur looked impressed, for which Merlin very badly wanted to slap him.

“You may begin as soon as you are ready,” the Baron told him.

The magician turned his head and spoke directly to Arthur. “The fleas conceal themselves within the fibre of the wood, and in the interstices between the floorboards…”

 _Not to mention the tapestries, the rugs, the mattress, the bed curtains_ … Merlin thought to himself sourly.

“…And once ensconced there-in, they lie in wait for a living body to pass by. What I shall attempt to do is send a pulse of magic travelling through the whole floor which will instantly despatch anything and everything living within it. I require total concentration for this, as it is delicate and precise work, so I ask that you do nothing to interrupt me.”

Merlin held back a cough of disbelief. But Arthur and the Baron nodded sombrely.

The old magician leaned over again on hands and knees as if he was about to scrub the floor. He pressed both palms flat against the floor and bowed his head. He began to mutter into his beard.

Arthur leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, watching intently. Merlin glanced at his face, and realized that this was probably the first time Arthur had knowingly seen magic performed that was perfectly benign. Merlin had performed plenty of innocuous magic around him, but Arthur had never actually seen any of it.

The only magic Arthur had ever seen performed in front of him was always part of an attempt to harm him…

Reflexively, Merlin found his grip tightening on the water jug.

The magician on the floor raised his voice slightly, and Merlin could at last make out his words. _That’s not magic!_ he thought incredulously, _it’s just gibberish! You old charlatan!_ The magician was rocking himself slightly on his hands and knees, as if performing his mumbo-jumbo took great effort.

Merlin was just about to make a scornful noise despite himself, when the muttering suddenly formed itself into a recognisable spell.

He recognised the words as a common phrase used to kill verminous insects. Actually, he’d used the same spell to kill weevils in Gaius’s cupboards just last week. The magic crackled out from the magician’s hands, fluttering invisibly through the creviced in the floor as it sought out the insects in it, but it ran slowly – sluggishly. Merlin felt it reach his boots and easily blocked it from climbing his legs, and then almost dropped the jug as Arthur bellowed and leapt to his feet.

The prince was clouting at his chest with his fists. “That stung!” he shouted. “I bloody felt it!” He brushed his palms roughly all over his body.

The Baron had also leapt to his feet, and was reaching for his guest with a worried expression on his face. “Sire! It’s quite all right. You must have had fleas in your clothing!”

Merlin was still watching the magician. He had been waiting for the rumble of the spell continuing through the rest of the castle, but there was none. Instead it had carried only as far as the skirting board, and then petered out. Was that all he was going to do?

The magician sat up, slowly, with a groan. He looked up at Arthur. “I apologise for not warning you, Sire,” he said. “I forgot to mention that the spell would seek out any fleas upon your person.”

“You _forgot_ to mention it…” the Baron rumbled, and gave his magician a dark glance.

“Well, you certainly gave me a fright,” Arthur said. He let his hands fall to his sides again. “But no harm has been done, I think.”

“Except to the fleas, of course,” the Baron said, and laughed, a little nervously. “Thank you, Magister.”

“It is always a pleasure, my lord,” the magician said. He climbed heavily to his feet, and turned his head to speak to Merlin over his shoulder. “Boy, a mug of that water.”

For the first time, Merlin caught a glimpse of the magician’s face. The old man wore an expression he had seen before – wide-eyed, dry-lipped and drawn – the expression of a very weak magician who has just performed a very simple spell that is nonetheless beyond his paltry strength.

Merlin lowered his head and poured water from the jug into the mug he had offered to Arthur. “I thought you were going to do the rest of the castle – sir?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

The old man smiled at him as he took the mug. It was a kindly, condescending smile. “Oh, no, my boy. Magic doesn’t work like that. It’s not like water that just flows out of a jug. It takes great effort and concentration, and I must rest in between and regain my strength.”

Merlin ground his teeth. Any fool could kill fleas with magic! _Gaius_ could kill fleas with magic, and Gaius had barely more magic than this man – but at least _Gaius_ didn’t set himself up as household magician to a Baron!

Arthur spoke up, as the magician drank. “You are clearly exhausted, magister.” He gestured imperiously to his chair. “Please sit down, recover your strength, and explain to me. If magic is not like pouring water, then what is it like?”

The magician lowered himself into Arthur’s chair, while Arthur moved to stand opposite him and lean his back against the bedpost, his arms folded. Merlin withdrew out of the line of sight of everyone involved, and watched.

The magician began. “Magic has three components, and all have to be met for magic to be worked. First of all, and most easily forgotten by non-practitioners, is that you need to know exactly what it is that you wish to accomplish. I could not use magic to bring peace to all of Albion, because I do not know how.”

 _You don’t,_ Merlin fumed, _but I do._ This old goat had barely enough magic to light a candle, and yet here he was, household magician to a Baron, while Merlin, with strength a thousand-fold greater, stood here holding the water jug! He set the jug down on the table with a louder thud than he intended.

“Go on,” Arthur said, after flicking a brief sidelong frown at Merlin.

“Secondly, you need to be able to phrase what you wish to do in the form of a spell so that the magic emerges into the right shape. For that, you need a total mastery of the Old Tongue, which can take years of study.”

 _No, it doesn’t,_ Merlin thought irritably, _most of the Old Tongue just is what it is._

Almost as if he’d heard Merlin’s thought, the magician continued. “Now, there are a tiny handful of practitioners, who have an understanding of the Old Tongue from birth, but they are very rare, and very powerful, and they generally have more important things to do with their power than kill fleas.”

 _Yes_ , Merlin thought, _killing weevils in Gaius’s herb cupboards. Very important work, killing weevils._

“But generally,” the Baron interrupted, “if you have attracted the attention of one of those, you have worse things to worry about than fleas in your floors.”

 _You’re right._ He restrained a smirk. _Moths._

“And thirdly, in order to work magic, you need to possess magic. You need strength in you to push the spell from your mind out into the world. You can study magic your whole life, you can speak the Old Tongue like one of the Sidhe themselves, but if you were not born with magic, you will never work magic yourself.”

“I see.”

“Of course, magic has its limits. There are some things that simply cannot be done,” the magician continued. “For example, no one can light a fire underwater.”

 _Yes, you can,_ Merlin raged silently. _You enclose a pocket of air in a fold of water, and light your fire inside that! Easy!_

It ought to be _his_ job teaching Arthur all this! _His_ job! He’d held his silence all this time, patiently waiting, biding his time, and now _this_ greasy idiot was stealing his moment! And the fact that the pupil was listening with obvious fascination just made it worse! Arthur had even forgotten that he was itchy since the magician had started, so great was his fascination.

Merlin glanced sidelong at the Baron, who was watching the interplay between Arthur and the magician with a self-satisfied expression. Yes, the Baron had to be pleased that he’d provided such a fine morning’s amusement for the Crown Prince of Camelot.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking you all these questions, magister,” Arthur said.

“Of course not, Sire,” the magician said. “I understand the situation in Camelot has prevented you from having the opportunity before.”

Arthur smiled. “You have a very delicate turn of phrase.” He straightened up from his position against the bedpost, a very princely hint that the interview was over.

“Sire,” the Baron said. “If you will excuse us, Magister Balthazar has the rest of the castle to treat as this room has been, and I have duties to attend to this morning that I cannot delay.”

“Yes, Sire,” the magician said. “Any delay will allow the vermin to recolonise this room.”

“By all means, go,” Arthur said. “And thank you for a very enlightening demonstration.”

The Baron and the magician got up, bowed formally to the prince, and left the room, with the Baron’s silent squire closing the door after them.

As soon as the door was shut, Arthur sprang into movement. “Gods above!” He began to scratch both arms through his tunic sleeves as hard as he could and pace up and down the room. “I wish he could have come up with a spell to stop this itching!”

“I will go to the kitchen and fetch you some calamine salve, Sire,” Merlin promised.

Arthur paced, scratching this way and that. “All right, Merlin. Out with it!”

“Out with what, Sire?” He stopped, halfway to the door.

“I saw the way you were glaring at him! You looked ready to batter in his head with that water jug!”

Merlin recoiled. “I did not, Sire!”

“Oh, yes, you did, and you know it. However,” Arthur came to a stop in his pacing, facing Merlin, “may I point out to you, Merlin, that we are Not. In. Camelot. Now.” He punctuated his last four words with emphatic wags of his forefinger, then went back to scratching his forearm. “And since we are not in Camelot, the ban on magic does not apply. He may use magic to do anything he pleases.”

“I know that.”

“Besides, we are guest in this man’s household. I don’t share my father’s repugnance for magic to such an extent that I would insult my host by protesting who he keeps in his household!” Arthur paced on. “I know you may have picked up a few anti-magic prejudices in your time at Camelot, Merlin, but those prejudices are best left at home.” Arthur made a pushing-away gesture with his raised palm, as if stuffing a big swollen prejudice into a too-small cupboard.

 _You have this entirely backward, Arthur!_ But all Merlin said was, “I’ll be more careful next time, Sire.” He folded his hands demurely, assuming a contrite stance he did not feel. Inside, he seethed.

His agreement seemed to mute Arthur’s passion somehow, because he let his breath out in a little puff between his teeth. “Glad to hear it, Merlin.” Arthur said, and gave him an affectionate clap on the shoulder. “Now, fetch my journal and writing case, and then you can pack up our stuff.”

A few minutes later, Merlin was busy checking that everything had been replaced in their saddlebags. Arthur was seated at the table, writing the day’s military and political observations in his journal, and periodically setting his quill down to scratch himself. Merlin wondered sourly if Arthur was writing about the magician.

If Arthur was impressed with a simple spell to kill fleas, he was in for a real surprise when he found out exactly what Merlin was capable of! For that matter, the ‘magister’ himself would be in for a serious shock. He would have good cause to look back on his dismissing words to Merlin. ‘Household magician,’ indeed!

He’d felt a surge of magic pass by through the floor a few minutes ago, as the old man dealt with another room. Merlin noticed that he was ignoring all the tapestries and textiles. _Keeping yourself employed, are you?_ he sneered to himself. Arthur didn’t notice the magic, but then again, he never did.

Very softly, Merlin began to hum a breezy little tune that kept time with his polishing.

Arthur glanced up to frown at him, but said nothing.

Merlin lowered his eyelids, so that Arthur would not see his eyes if he looked up at the wrong moment, and continued to hum. Very gently, he began to slip a spell into his tune, threading it between the notes without sounding the words out aloud. It was subtle enough to pass as part of the tune, gentle enough to take hold slowly and gently, but insistent enough to be heeded.

He glanced up again, just once, to see that Arthur’s quill had stopped moving, and his eyes were fixed sleepily on his page.

Merlin added a little more emphasis to the spell, and it took hold. With a languid sigh, Arthur put his quill down, folded his arms on the table top and dropped his head into the crook of his elbow. “I’m just going to take a few…” he murmured, and was still.

Merlin walked around the table, and bent down over his prince.

Arthur’s face was hidden in his arms, but he was breathing deeply. Merlin watched and listened, waiting to see if Arthur would wake, and when Arthur stayed still he touched the back of the golden head gently. Arthur still didn’t move. He cupped that hand over the back of Arthur’s head, and slid his other hand around Arthur’s warm neck, so that his fingers were resting on the strong, slow pulse.

Arthur slept soundly. Less magic behind the spell, and he would have woken up at Merlin’s touch. More, and he would not be able to wake on his own at all, but would sleep on, trapped, until the spell was broken.

Merlin let go of Arthur’s head. He had hoped that the use of his magic might sooth him, but he found he was still angry. He found that he was trembling. “Shall we show these idiots what a _real_ magician is capable of?” he whispered to Arthur.

He stepped back, until he stood where the old magician had been, and went down on one knee. He place one palm on the floorboards, and hissed, “Right, old man, let’s see what you make of _this.”_

He took a deep breath, and with a hard, angry thrust drove his spell into the floor through his hand, using all the brutal killing force he’d just withheld from Arthur – all of it. The spell roared out from his hand. It poured out into the floorboards like liquid fire and ran crackling out in all directions, alive and wild. He heard as well as felt the rumble as his magic rushed through the stone heart of the castle itself.

Up, down, along, across – between every crevice and crack, he felt his magic run free. He felt it rush joyfully up stairs, down halls, up chimneys, across the roof and down into the dungeons and up all the tapestries to the ceilings. Beams and battlements, furniture and flesh. A hundred sparks leaping from crevice to crevice, a hundred tendrils of magic seeking out new paths …

And finally, all the zigzagging threads of the spell threw themselves together in a wild tangle … wove themselves together instantly into a single union, and in that union … ceased.

The sudden feeling of release, of unbearable pressure relieved, made him wobble where he knelt, and gasp for breath. His anger was gone – evaporated – and replaced by a feeling of brilliant light-headed clarity.

He jumped when Arthur bellowed.

 _“It’s an earthquake!”_ Arthur thrust himself to his feet so fast that his chair went over backwards, and he got entangled in its legs trying to get clear of it. Chair and prince crashed to the floor. “We need to get outside!” he shouted, rolling over and trying to kick away the chair.

Merlin sprang to his side, grabbed him by his arm and hauled him to his feet. “It’s not an earthquake!” he shouted at Arthur. “It’s only magic!”

“Magic?” Arthur stared at him, wild-eyed. _“Magic!”_ His hand went to his sword hilt, and whipped the blade out.

Merlin skipped backwards out of his way as the blade swung out. “For pity’s sake, _put that away!_ ” he shrieked. “What do you think you’re going to do with it? _You’re_ the one who said we weren’t in Camelot any more!”

Arthur goggled at him, then stared at the sword, as if noticing it for the first time. “Right,” he agreed, and slid the sword away. “Conditioned reflex. Thank you, Merlin.”

“Glad I could help, Sire!”

“What do you think just happened?”

“Maybe the magister did something different this time?” Merlin prompted, desperately.

Arthur nodded. “We will go see.”

They found the Baron and his retainers in the great hall, vociferously restoring order. The Baroness was surrounded by her maids, some of whom were wailing in a way that in Camelot would have earned them everlasting scorn. The magister was sitting slumped on the edge of the dais, looking pale. He still wore his impressive black-and-silver nonsense, complete with that hideous black ring.

The seneschal saw them entering through the hall doors, and pointed them out to the Baron, who swung around on his heel. The magister stood up.

Arthur headed straight to the little group. “My congratulations, magister,” Arthur said, spreading his hands in an expansive gesture as he swept up to them. “I don’t know what you did, but you woke me up from a sound sleep. My servant even though it was an earthquake!”

Behind him, Merlin turned a laugh into a cough, but he managed to keep his head demurely bowed.

The Baron turned to his magician. “What did you do, my friend? I’ve never felt anything like that.”

The magister looked back and forth between his master and Arthur. For a moment, he hesitated, then smiled. “The resonance must have … echoed back from the leys into the castle itself. The planets are in perfect alignment, and clearly the leys are attuned as well, and it, er, it paid unexpected dividends for my strength.”

“I certainly didn’t expect it,” the Baron smiled. “Well done!”

The magister smiled broadly. “My lord, I would be willing to wager that if you sent a messenger out to the herdsmen on the moor they would say that the standing stones had a peculiar ambience today. Something subtle, I believe, but I have no doubt they could pinpoint some difference today, if they put their minds to it. The standing stones would have picked up the same confluence of power as the castle and resonated to the same harmony.”

 _You’re a clever old fox,_ Merlin chuckled silently. _You don’t have much to work with, but,_ oh boy, _you do get a lot of mileage out of it!_

“Can you do that again?”

“Well,” he flicked another glance at Arthur. “I don’t believe so, no. I wouldn’t want to rely on it. I think it was just this one circumstance.”

Merlin kept his head bowed. _You know you didn’t do that, but you can’t pipe up and say, ‘Eh, that weren’t me, guv.’_

“These things happen,” Arthur said, philosophically. “One has these days of surprising oneself with one’s own strength.”

“It would be a once-off occurrence, though, my lord. Wouldn’t you agree, Sire? Something in the nature of a gift?” He was watching Arthur very closely, Merlin saw – watching him with a wondering expression, as if he was not quite sure they were really talking about the same thing but unwilling to come out and ask bluntly. His heart sank.

 _He_ knows _he didn’t do that. Which means - there is another magician in this castle. Another magician – one who has reason to keep his power concealed._ He felt suddenly dizzy. _One who has a whole kingdom to lose if he doesn’t keep his power concealed…_

“Oh, certainly, yes,” Arthur agreed. “I know well how that is. In jousting practice, I may have to work for my victories one day, and then be all but invincible the next. I just take it as a blessing from Lady Luck.”

 _Oh, gods above. What have I just done? What was I thinking?_

“Then you do understand how it is,” the magister said, clearly coming to a conclusion.

“I do indeed.”

“Well, this has been very instructional,” the Baron said. “I must go and restore order in the barracks. Prince Arthur?”

“I will stay here,” Arthur said. “My presence may be reassuring to certain… skittish individuals.” His eyes twitched in the direction of the little knot of distraught maids.

“As you wish.” The Baron bowed himself out of the royal presence, and Arthur headed across the hall toward the Baroness.

As he’d guessed – and not at all to Merlin’s surprise – his appearance had something of a stiffening effect on the courage of the servants. Nobody wanted to look like an whimpering idiot in front of the tall handsome prince – not even the smallest and youngest chambermaid. Tears were dried, and light jokes were made.

“It seems you have a powerful protector here in your lands,” Arthur said to the Baroness. “It must be immensely reassuring to know you have an ally and protector of such strength.”

“It is,” the Baroness said. “We have never had trouble with dark sorcerers or malevolent creatures here. Magister Balthazar’s reputation keeps them away for us.”

Merlin, standing in his station at Arthur’s side, was so familiar with Arthur’s reassure-the-populace performance that he could ignore it. He glanced over at the dais behind Arthur.

The Magister, the Castellan, the Fiscal, and the Seneschal were all standing in a little huddle by the dais, talking intently. As they spoke, they cast surreptitious glances at Arthur, obviously discussing the identity of the astonishingly powerful sorcerer who was visiting their castle.

Even as he thought this, the Castellan said something, and then suddenly all four men were staring intently at Merlin.

 _Oh, dear. Don’t look at me! I’m just a servant…_

He bowed his head, watching back out of the corner of his eye while aiming his face at Arthur’s shoulder.

For a long moment, they stared at him, and then the Seneschal turned away and said something to his companions, with a bark of derisive laughter. They all returned to staring at Arthur.

Merlin felt a surge of irritation, but he fought it down. _I couldn’t possibly be a sorcerer,_ he thought. _Why would a sorcerer be serving a prince, and this prince in particular, at that?_

But … they now thought Arthur was a sorcerer. The Baron might not know that his own household magician was a weakling – but the magister had a duty to tell him that Arthur had magic, anyway. Which meant the Baron had a duty to inform his king. Which meant Camelot’s diplomatic relations with them were going to become extremely … interesting.

He tried to imagine some envoy coming to Camelot and letting slip Arthur’s ‘little secret.’ Somewhere public – the Great Hall, in front of the king, for example. The thought made him shiver.

When Arthur had finished wandering around the room, speaking to almost every person there, he excused himself from the Baroness, and went back to the room. Merlin trailed meekly after him.

Merlin closed the door quickly as soon as they were inside the room. “Sire,” he said, anxiously. “Are we still leaving at ten o’clock?”

“I wanted to, but if I do, it might be construed as running away.” He dropped into his chair and sat with his ankles crossed and his hand over his eyes. “I can’t be seen to run away from the big scary magician. I think I might stay until this afternoon, instead, even if it does mean camping on the road and not at an inn.”

“Sire,” Merlin said. He swallowed. “It … might be better if we left right away instead.” The bags all lay packed on the table, the horses needed only to be saddled. “Even if it does mean looking a bit silly.”

Arthur dropped his hand. “Why?”

Nothing for it but to tell him the truth. Merlin sat down opposite Arthur, and put his head in his hands. “I’ve done something stupid. Hugely, monumentally, unbelievably stupid.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, and crossed his arms. “Embarrassing-stupid, or dangerous-stupid?” he interrogated.

“Um. Embarrassing-stupid, and potentially also dangerous-stupid, if certain people put two and two together.” _Which is something you haven’t yet managed to do, against all the odds, but I don’t know about the Baron._ “Dangerous for both of us. The thing is, I did something stupid, but they’ll think you’re responsible.”

“Merlin. You know perfectly well everything you do wearing that livery reflects on Camelot, and on me!” Arthur’s voice was beginning to rise with irritation.

He rubbed at his head with the heels of both hands, and stared at Arthur between his wrists. “I know! I know! I can’t believe I was so stupid! I don’t know what I was thinking!”

“What did you do?”

“Um. I’d rather not go into details, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, you were as stupid as all that, were you?” Arthur snapped.

“Oh, Arthur, you have _no idea_ how stupid I feel right now. Gaius will be furious, if he finds out. I’ll be cleaning the leech-tank until I’m old and grey!”

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with those maids you mentioned impressing earlier?”

“Arthur! I really …!”

“You idiot! I never thought _you’d_ have trouble keeping your prick in your pants!”

“Look, really, it’s not… Please, please, don’t ask, all right? You don’t want to know, and I don’t want to tell you.”

“Fine! Fine! All right!” Arthur threw up his hands. “I won’t ask. It’s none of my business what you get up to when you’re off duty. We’ll leave. Discretion is the better part of valour, and all that. My reputation will survive.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” He let his head drop forward onto the table top. _Thud!_ “Ow,” he added.

He heard Arthur chuckle. “Steady, Merlin! You won’t make things better by concussing yourself! But promise me, you’ll tell me when we’re out of here?” Arthur leaned forward. “I know you’re an idiot, but you’re an idiot in my livery, and I have to know.”

“Not as soon as we get out of here, but I will, I promise.” _One day, when you’re ready to hear all of it…_

Arthur stood, and stalked around the table. “I did already notify the Baron that I wanted to leave at ten o’clock. It might raise a few eyebrows, but we have a ready excuse. Go and prepare the horses, and let slip that I’ll be leaving immediately.”

“Yes, Sire!” Merlin left, hurriedly. He went out into the corridor, and paused just outside Arthur’s door, puffing out his lips in relief. _That was close._

He walked to the stables, unnoticed by the castle’s servants, and began saddling their horses.

Yes, it was better for Arthur to think he had done something naughty with one of the maids. In fact, it was actually less embarrassing than the truth. Anyone could do something sexually stupid, and most people did, eventually. It was more embarrassing to think that he had done something so … so _unprofessional_ … as throw his magic around in a silly fit of pique.

In a fit of jealousy, he realized, now. _Jealous of that old man?_ What had he been thinking? It was hard to remember the emotions that had made him act so rashly – the jealousy, the outrage, the seething anger. He had let his emotions rule his decisions, like a spoiled child.

 _I’m supposed to be the great Emrys, he told himself, _and here I am, getting all worked up about some old man prattling about Arthur’s biilio-cristal width? What was I thinking?__

Gaius was going to be furious. He could almost hear the scolding he was going to get when he got home and confessed.

He worked silently, avoiding the stable boys, in a hot pink cloud of private embarrassment.

When he led their horses out, he found a parade in the last stages of preparation.

The Baron’s men had formed up in two lines, facing each other, with a wide alleyway running between them from the front steps of the keep to the gate. It was an honour guard for the departing prince.

 _There are a lot of them,_ he thought to himself, watching the sergeants noisily dressing the ranks. _Maybe what Arthur said about too many men-at-arms was right._

Merlin stood, his head bowed in his customary I’m-just-the-dogsbody stance, and waited, until Arthur appeared, escorted by the Baron, Baroness, and the Castellan.

And, of course, Arthur wasn’t prepared to just _walk_ past a line of soldiers. Not Arthur: no, he had to stop and _talk_ to them, for all the world as if they were real people and not just random expendable serfs conscripted by the Baron’s levy.

Merlin couldn’t hear what was being said, but suddenly there was a row of grins down the rank, and he saw Arthur toss back his golden head in the familiar laugh of amazed delight.

He saw the Baron watching Arthur, and allowed himself a small smile.

 _You can be glad we’re leaving today, my lord,_ he thought. _Give him two days, and your men would fight anything he asked them to. A week, and the whole troop would desert en masse and follow him home to Camelot like ducklings. Yes, my lord, that’s the future High King, there, right enough._

Eventually, Arthur reached Merlin, and gave his servant the level glance and quiet nod that was meant only for him, and seemed to mean _Job well done, now let’s go back to real life._ He handed Arthur his reins, watched his prince mount, and then mounted himself.

They rode out between the gates, with Arthur in the lead, Merlin following, and the mule tagging reluctantly along on the lead-rein in his hand. As he rode out of the shade of the gates and into the sunlight on the other side, Merlin realized that nobody had even asked his name.

Just as Camelot’s citadel was surrounded by the Lower Town, the Baron’s castle was surrounded by a village, but instead of a hustle of streets and markets there was only a bridge that jumped the castle moat, and a single lane that ran between the peasant houses out to the fields.

At the end of the lane, where the last houses ended and the sunny fields of barley began, a figure in a black robe waited for them.

“I wonder what he wants,” Merlin said, under his breath.

“We’ll see soon enough.”

The magister raised his hand, as they came abreast of him and drew rein. He held a staff in one hand. It was just a staff, Merlin saw, not a magical staff but a simple length of yew … an old man’s walking stick.

“My lord,” the magister said.

“Magister.” Arthur nodded.

“I wished to assure you of my most sincere goodwill, my lord, as well as a most abject apology.”

 _Uh-oh,_ Merlin thought. _This is it. The magister is going to own up that he didn’t do it, and Arthur is going to work out who did._ Heeeere _we go…_ Without intending, he was clenching the reins, and his horse fiddle-footed, picking up his anxiety.

“Your goodwill is gladly reciprocated, magister,” Arthur replied, in his most plummy Princely voice, “But why the apology? What have you to apologise for?”

 _Bye, bye, secret. It’s been nice keeping you…_

The magister bowed. “You are too kind, my lord. If I had been aware of the truth, I would not have … I would not have spoken quite as … fulsomely as I did, in your chambers, for one thing.”

 _Gaius is going to be furious…_

“Ah, but, magister, I asked you to speak, in my chambers. Do not apologise to me for doing what I asked you to do. And I have asked your Baron not to let word of it reach my father. If he heard my name, mentioned in connection with sorcery – well, let us say that he would be exceedingly displeased.”

 _I wonder, should I turn around and gallop away right now, or wait until we’re on the road?_

“I can imagine. A man in your position has every reason to be discreet.” The magister bowed. “And for the other… Please understand, my lord, this castle is my home, and protecting it is my duty.”

 _Wait, what?_ Merlin’s attention had drifted from the conversation somewhat, absorbed in his imagining of what Arthur was going to say when he finally put two and two together.

“But of course,” Arthur agreed. “In these dangerous times, we must all look to protect our homes, and our people. The Baron informed me of what it is that you do for him here.”

“I do very little,” the magister admitted. “I’m sure you of all people must be aware of that, my lord.” He held up his hands – bare now of his ugly jewellery. “The greatest protection of this castle is my ring. It was crafted many decades ago, by a great sorcerer. There is an enchantment in it, that reaches out to any sorcerers other than the wearer. It influences them, impairs their judgement, and entices them to act rashly and in haste.”

“I see,” Arthur said, thoughtfully. Behind him, unnoticed, Merlin felt the colour drain from his cheeks.

“My own power is small, but with this, this castle is impregnable. No sorcerer can long besiege this place, without doing something irreparably stupid.”

“That would be of great military value, I can see that.” Arthur smiled.

“You do understand what I’m saying, my lord. This ring is the cause of this morning’s disturbance. I apologise, sincerely, for any ill effects you were caused.”

“Of course. Apology accepted.” Arthur bowed from the saddle. “But even if you drop it down the garderobe, your castle will be safe. Camelot is a friend to your King, and to your Baron, and to you.”

“I’m grateful for your understanding, my lord.” The magister bowed low, and Arthur, breaking protocol, put his hand down to his knee and lowered his head in a horseman’s salute. Then he raised his rein and started Hengroen into a walk again. The magister retreated out of the way of Merlin’s horse, without sparing him a glance.

Merlin felt weak with relief. He kept his eyes on Arthur’s back, until Arthur looked back toward him.

The prince’s brows were lowered and his teeth were bared in an expression of puzzlement. “That …” he said, “was _weird._ ”

“You can say that again,” Merlin said. He felt giddy, and hoped Arthur would not notice that his hands trembled on the reins. All right, the magister thought Arthur was a sorcerer – but he also thought Arthur was an ally. And when he told the Baron … well, Arthur would deal with the accusations himself when he heard about them. Diplomacy was what Arthur was good at, after all.

“I wonder why he told me that,” Arthur said, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps he senses that you are your father’s son, not your father himself?” Merlin suggested.

“Perhaps. I wonder how many other sorcerers there are like him – household magicians, minding their own business, quietly looking out for their lords.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Merlin said.


End file.
